


The Kinki Origin Story

by Kiranokira



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Japan, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone is Bi...lingual, F/F, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, No Homophobia, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiranokira/pseuds/Kiranokira
Summary: One year, in the Kinki region of Japan, six very different lives happened to interlace, and a family was found.





	1. Lance

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I've had this 'verse developing in my head for a while, and I've finally decided (that rather than try to write a huge plotted fic, I'd like to make this an ongoing series of short snippets instead) to make this the first fic in a series. :D I plan to update whenever the mood takes me. ONWARD. \:D/~~
> 
> I've wanted to write an AU set in Japan for a long time, so I wrote these eighteen snippets to worldbuild and get a feel for the longer stories I want to tell in this verse. It's mostly lighthearted fluff, so enjoy the antics!

• **LANCE** •

Lance arrives in the Kinki region of Japan on the first of November armed with his sister’s rolling suitcase and a massive hiking backpack leaking some shirt sleeves. At sunset, he boards a train from the airport bound for Osaka, then wanders the streets of his new neighborhood for an embarrassing number of minutes he'll never admit to anyone, and finally checks into his capsule hotel feeling a little less than a quarter human. 

He doesn't experience much of anything that first day beyond hunger, exhaustion, urgency, and confusion. He barely even tastes his first meal, and he forgets to take a photograph of it to send to his family. He has only enough energy to brush his teeth and wash his face in the communal bathroom before he snuggles into his slim hole in the wall and completely konks out.

The next four days pass in a similar vein, devoted to orientation for his new job and paperwork for his new apartment (which, by the photos, seems to be slightly larger than the capsule he's sleeping in for the week).

There are, however, small pockets in which Lance can pause to appreciate his surroundings.

Osaka is a jubilant city with wild neon lights at night and teeming crowds during the day. Everything is noise and color. Clerks posted at their shops’ entrances bellow greetings to potential customers; college kids shout over each other with Osaka’s distinctive rolled R’s; laughter courses through the city like a pulse.

It’s perfect.

By Friday, Lance has moved into his new apartment and Hunk is sitting on his floor drinking a bottle of Calpis.

“Your packing skills really are legendary, dude,” Hunk tells him. “I never would have thought by that suitcase you’d have _that_ many sweaters. Are you gonna be able to fit everything in there?”

Lance pauses in his study of the person-sized closet to toss a grin over his shoulder. “Sure. I just need some more of these layered hangers.”

“Uh. You already have, like, six.”

“I have a lot of jeans!”

“One might call that ‘too many’.”

“If one has time to judge, one has time to get me tea from the vending machine in the lobby.”

“Fine,” Hunk says with a good-natured eye-roll and sets his bottle on the narrow shelf that has the nerve to pose as a kitchen counter. “By the way, my mom just forwarded this to me.” On his way to the door he passes his phone to Lance, who knows immediately what he’s looking at.

Over the last semester of Lance’s time in university, his mother campaigned hard in support of Lance’s dream to live overseas for a year. When any member of the family brought up concerns or doubts, she always appeared at Lance’s shoulder to defend his choice with statistics she’d read somewhere or with sheer, old fashioned “leave my baby alone” scowls.

It also seems she reached out to Hunk’s family, their only real contact in the entire country.

Lance takes a seat on the floor by his open suitcase and smiles as he reads through his mamá’s email, dated over a month ago.

 

_From: Martén Elena_  
To: Urale Pomu  
**Good morning!**  
_September 21, 20xx 14:31_

_Dear Pomu, my favorite roommate!_

_First of all, I have to tell you: your new house is beautiful! I know how long you and Tuala have wanted to move out into the countryside. You finally escaped the tourists! Congratulations! Manti’s hair is so long now, and Hunk keeps getting handsomer! (Tell Sou I still want that DVD of his last match!!! I’ve been waiting three years!!! My friends are starting to think I’m lying about my college roommate’s sumo wrestling son!)_

_Give hugs all around, my dear friend!_

_That’s all!_

_._  
.  
. 

_Okay, I have an ulterior motive. You caught me! Ha! :)_

Lance’s mouth tucks up into a lopsided smile. He can hear her voice. “ _Mami_ ,” he murmurs.

_Lance graduated from university a few months ago (he’s not allowed to get older! He keeps breaking his promise to me!) and he’s decided to move to Japan for a year to teach English! He doesn’t know anyone there yet, and of course he says he’ll be fine on his own—he does make friends quickly (I know, I know!)—but you know me. I like to have three or four backup plans whenever possible. ;)_

“So who’d you write to after this, then?” Lance asks no one. He scrunches his nose against the heat building in his eyes.

_If you and Tuala aren’t too busy, would you be willing to maybe show him around Kyoto? He’s going to be living in Osaka, and it seems like that’s pretty close to you guys! He’ll be so happy to see Hunk again, too!_

_All right, that’s really it! I promise!_

_Okay, okay, I’m lying again. I have another ulterior motive. Two ulterior motives! I need to stop, maybe? ;P But I won’t!_

Lance rubs his sleeve over his eyes with a wet chuckle.

_If you have time, show Lance to that store you took me to in that street market! I want that Japanese sticky rice we ate. The really good stuff from northern Japan. He’s promised to send me a bag, but only if someone shows him where to get it._

_Simón is telling me this is too long and to stop embarrassing our son, so I’m going to send it now before he makes me erase everything. :P_

_Elena_

Lance reads through it twice more before Hunk comes back with a bottle of what looks like the incredible barley tea Lance drank at the airport the day he arrived. As Hunk crosses the room, whistling, Lance lifts his chin and gives him a shaky smile.

Hunk breaks off into silence and his face crumples with guilt. “Aww, dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d cry.”

“Nah,” Lance says, hoarse. “It’s fine.” He hands the phone back and runs his thumb under his eye to catch the tear gathering there. “I’ve been so busy the last few days, I guess I forgot to be homesick.”

When he couldn’t fit his clothes into his own suitcase, his sister gave him her larger one. When he worried about leaving his car behind, his brother promised to take care of her. When he got the acceptance email to his job, both of his parents smiled and cried and enveloped him in a tight, proud embrace. On the morning of his flight, they took two cars to the airport and arrived three hours early. A wise choice, in retrospect, since it took an hour to hug and kiss everyone goodbye before the security gate. Then, at the last minute, his mother curled her fingers behind his ears, touched their foreheads together, and told him, "Make it everything you want it to be."

Lance pinches his nose as fresh tears rush to his eyes. "Damn it, Hunk," he whines.

Hunk sits down next to him and settles the bottle on the floor between their legs. “Wanna go to karaoke?” he asks. “Sing out all your feelings?”

Lance laughs. It's quick and small, but genuine. “Actually, yeah. That is _exactly_ what I wanna do.” He stretches out his arms and legs and tips his head back to concentrate on breathing more slowly. “I need to get a phone, too,” he says. “And more hangers. What’s the name of the store we got those at?”

“Daiso,” Hunk says. He curls an arm around Lance’s shoulders and jostles him gently. “C’mon, you can finish this up tomorrow, right?”

Lance allows Hunk to drag him to his feet. “Yeah, I guess." It occurs to him that he only planned his first week in Japan up until today. Saturday and Sunday are open question marks on his calendar, and on Monday he starts his job. "You can’t come over tomorrow, can you?” he asks, tentative.

“Ahh, sorry, dude,” Hunk says. “I have my boxing lesson out in Kyoto." He tilts his head. "Wanna come?”

Lance says, " _Dude_ ," which, of course, means "yes".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have a bunch of ideas for this, so I hope you enjoy how things progress from here!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hadakanomind) or [Tumblr](kyashin.tumblr.com).
> 
> I also started a [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kinkuron) for this project, where I'll post related worldbuilding stuff and miscellaneous details as they occur to me. :)


	2. Shiro

• **SHIRO** •

The house always smells somewhat floral when Shiro’s mother is home, so it’s a good indicator that she isn’t there when Shiro opens the front door to a rancid stench. He tracks the source to to the kitchen and finds Keith there, scowling at the charred remains of whatever he was trying to cook clinging to the bottom of the Really Nice copper pan.

Shiro takes a photo with his phone. “I’m home,” he says.

Keith startles, his eyes wide. “It wasn't me!”

Shiro holds up his phone, offering the photo he just took as evidence to the contrary.

“It wasn't!” Keith insists. “I just found it like this! I was asleep!”

“You were asleep when you found it?”

“No! I mean–”

“Sorry, guys, that’s on me.”

Shiro and Keith turn to face the other kitchen doorway where the sudden burst of English came from. Pidge is standing there, arm in the air while she yawns. She's wearing Shiro’s mother’s flannel pajamas and an eye mask around her neck.

“Welcome home, dude,” she says to Shiro. “How was LA?”

Shiro tilts his head. “Hey, Pidge,” he says, switching to English for her benefit. “It was...fine. You do know where you are, right?”

Because it’s Pidge. Shiro and Matt once found her asleep in a convenience store, pushed into a corner by the staff lady who originally found her in the snack aisle hugging several bags of pizza-flavored chips.

“Yeah, I was visiting Matt at the library,” Pidge says. “Missed the last train.” She shuffles over to the island and pours herself into a chair, grimacing against the morning light. “Sorry about the pan.”

Keith crosses the kitchen to the sink with said pan, even though his expression very much says, _I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm sure as fuck gonna do it._

Shiro deftly takes it from him and ignores the frown he gets for his consideration.

“What were you _making_ anyway?” Keith asks Pidge.

“Ramen,” she says. “Woke up while your aunt was getting ready to leave. She said she wanted to make us breakfast but she also said she has a meeting back in Yokohama, I think, so she booked it out of here pretty fast. You guys had ramen in the drawer, so I figured I could take a nap while the water boiled. Who’d guess water could boil that fast?”

“There are directions on the package,” Keith says.

“Yeah, well, I threw it away. Figured it couldn’t be that hard.”

“Clearly it was.”

“ _You_ do it, then.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Yeah, ‘cos you can’t cook either,” Pidge says, snorting.

Keith gives Shiro an imploring look, but given that Shiro just completed a fifteen-hour journey from his dad’s condo in Los Angeles to his mom’s house in Kyoto, traversing the planet in all manner of planes, trains, and automobiles, he’s nowhere near invested enough in this to referee them.

So he says, “I’m gonna go shower,” and tries not to laugh at the maligned look on his cousin’s face.

He’s just barely made it to the hallway when Pidge calls, “Oh, Matt’s here, too. I think he slept in your bed, Shiro.”

Of course Matt’s here. He has a key. Because Shiro’s mother cheerfully _gave_ him that key last month, because she _approves of_ him.

Shiro calls back, “‘Kay,” and congratulates himself on sounding casual. Not like he’s steeling himself for a confrontation with his best friend’s bedhead and hazy smile.

He hasn’t had nearly enough sleep for any of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I like this short chapter approach! This whole story is pretty different from anything I've done before, since I don't really have a plot in mind. I'm just sort of playing around. So, y'know, WHEE. \:D/


	3. Allura

• **ALLURA** •

The bullet train Allura’s meant to be on leaves without her at 17:37. She knows it does because she watches it go from the escalator, trapped behind a family wielding a wide stroller.

Deflating, panting, and groaning, Allura unlocks her phone screen and confronts Nyma’s last message.

[See you soon, babe!]

“Not as soon as you're imagining,” Allura sighs.

The silver lining to this is that she considered this outcome before she purchased her ticket. She'd been tempted to treat herself to a seat in the green car, but work has never been what anyone would call reliable, so she wound up buying an unreserved ticket for what Nyma calls the free-for-all cars.

She shuffles to the far end of the platform while she composes her apology note to her girlfriend.

When she's satisfied with the tone, she sends it off and squeaks a little when ‘Read’ comes up immediately beneath it.

“Oh feathers,” she curses.

Nyma sends back an annoyed otter stamp, complete with folded arms and a tiny puff of smoke on either side of its head where its tiny ears are.

Allura starts to write back when Nyma sends a follow-up.

[I hate those strollers. Use the elevator!!! That's why it's there!! Don't worry about it, babe. I'll call the spa and see if we can push the reservations back a bit.]

Allura wilts onto a bench and smiles, the breath pouring out of her.

“That's a happy sound if ever I've heard one!”

She corrects her posture in a flash, accustomed to dignitaries and high level staff wandering by her desk during heightened moments of exhaustion.

The man beside her tilts his head a bit, smiling wide. “Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.”

Allura offers him a sheepish smile in return. “Not at all.”

She's prepared to leave it there, but the man takes her handful of words as an invitation to continue.

“I missed the shinkansen once!” he says, trailing his fingertips over the swell of his orange mustache. “Missed the biggest job interview of my life! Could have made ¥400,000 a month if I'd made it on time.”

Nothing in his tone indicates danger, so Allura allows her smile to warm a bit. “That would frustrate me, too,” she allows.

He laughs, bright and unconcerned. “Not at all! I took it as a sign from the universe to do more with myself, and so I started my very own business the next month!”

“Wow,” Allura says, blinking. “That's certainly bouncing back quickly.”

The man gives Allura a small nod, acknowledging, and then says, “If you don't mind the invasion of privacy, are you living here in Japan?”

Allura’s heard this question every other day for five years. She rattles off the response without pause. “Actually, I am. I came to work here in Tokyo after leaving university.” Then, for reasons she can't immediately parse, she adds, “I’m on my way to visit my girlfriend now, in fact, although I've made myself much later than we agreed.” And, most ludicrously, “My name is Allura.”

Normally it takes a fair chunk of time to coax that much information out of her. But there's something so disarming and genuine about this man, she feels at ease in his presence.

“And I'm Coran,” he says to her, with a bow of his head and a flourishing arm out. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I'm sorry it had to be under stressful circumstances.”

Allura waves this aside. “It was my own fault. I'm little more than an assistant, but I often invite a good deal more work into my care than I should.” Her lips take on a wry turn. “Or so my girlfriend tells me.”

There isn't much about Allura’s job that she can share outside the embassy, even with Nyma, so many of her stories end up edited and sounding extremely suspicious. In truth, her job is just incredibly boring and she frequently takes on more exciting material from superiors as a way to keep herself awake.

The bullet train arrives, greeted by a cheerful melody pumped out of the station’s sound system.

Passengers disembark in droves, shuffling past the neat lines of passengers waiting by each door. As the staff rush in to clean the train, Coran stands and stretches his arms out before him with a yawn. Upon closer inspection, his suit appears to be several shades more expensive than Allura first thought, and it occurs to her that she never asked him what his job is.

“This may be forward,” Coran says as Allura stands, “but would you like to sit together on the train? I rather like talking to new people, and I have a good feeling there’re a lot of stories we could exchange.”

Allura smiles and tips her head in a mimicry of the bows he seems so fond of giving. “I'd be delighted,” she says.

Coran dives into a deeper bow as the passengers begin to stream into the train cars. “Well then!” he says. “Lead on, and I'll follow.”

By the time they reach Yokohama twenty-six minutes later, Allura’s laughing so hard she's sure that more than half the train car would vote to have her and her amusing new friend removed.


	4. Hunk

• **HUNK** •

Saturday morning finds Hunk in the kitchen with his mama while she pipes frosting on the top of the cake.

“I think you have to let it cool down some more,” Hunk says, holding out his hand near the spongy side of the cake where the barest hint of heat touches his palm.

“No, no,” his mama says, distracted. “The video said that's the trick. The cake should be a little warm to get the drippy effect.”

Hunk has Opinions on the experimental cooking videos his mama watches, and he's normally backed up by his certified pastry chef of a mom, but she isn't home, so he settles for twisting his mouth in disapproval.

“When's Lance coming over?” his mama asks.

“Around eleven,” Hunk says. “Manti said he'd drive us.”

“That's nice of him,” his mama says, raising an eyebrow over the cake.

Hunk nods. “Yeah, I think there's a catch but it's really far and Lance doesn't have a bike and I don't want to walk so whatever it is, I'll just have to suffer, right?”

The frosting has taken on a decidedly sludge-like consistency. “Well,” his mama says, “if Manti’s demands are too over the top…that recipe video lied to me.”

Hunk sits up, beaming. “I can fix it!” He starts to slide off his stool. “Let me grab Mom’s—”

“It's not broken!” his mama objects, batting at him to sit back down. “Get away from my cake!”

“But it's ugly!”

“Ugly! You—”

Hunk squawks as a gob of icing splatters on his nose. “Mama!” he laughs.

She grins at him, unapologetic. “My ugly cake didn't appreciate your critique,” she says, lofty.

Down the hall, Lance shouts, “Uh, Pomu! Tuala! Hunk! A little help please?”

Hunk and his mama exchange a quick glance, then rush toward the front door where Lance is standing with Blue merrily wriggling in his arms. He gives them an alarmed look.

“I'm so sorry,” he says. “Manti let me in but then he left and then I got ambushed and now I have a cat.”

Hunk’s mama laughs and gathers Lance and Blue into a gentle hug. “Welcome, baby, welcome. Blue, leave him alone.” She picks up Blue by the scruff and the kitten makes a mournful sound, kicking her hind legs.

“Hi, Pomu,” Lance says, smiling. “Sorry for the, um, panicked entrance.”

“Sorry about Blue, dude,” Hunk says. “She’s only, like, four months old so she's still super needy and climbs on everyone.”

Lance opens his mouth and then quickly closes it because he clearly still carries the misconception that he has a pristine image in this house. Hunk doesn't have it in him to remind Lance that their mothers went to university together and obviously trade all the worst stories about their kids.

Hunk’s mama hands him Blue, who seems to forgive the manhandling instantly and butts her head against Hunk’s chest for attention.

Lance follows them back into the kitchen and takes a seat in front of the ugly cake. He doesn't comment on the giant chunk missing, but his eyes definitely linger there.

“I think it's just her personality,” Hunk’s mama continues, pulling out the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice Hunk’s mom left for them all this morning. “Tarragon and Paprika never acted like that. I guess Tumeric was a little friendlier. But Pepper still only likes your mom.”

Hunk knows his mama did that on purpose and enjoys the process of Lance figuring out what all four of those names have in common.

Then he wrinkles his nose in confusion and points to Blue in Hunk’s arms with a question in his eyes.

Hunk shrugs. “No naturally occurring blue spices. But I wanted a color scheme. So, y’know. Blue.”

“Why not Blueberry?”

“1) Blueberries aren't a spice, 2) blueberries aren't blue.”

“Yeah, that's always bothered me,” Lance says, frowning.

Manti leans into the room. “You guys good to go?” he asks in Samoan, just to be obnoxious.

Lance answers him in Spanish.

Manti laughs. “I missed this kid.” He ruffles Lance’s hair over his squawking until it's bursting with static. “C’mon, I'm starting the car. Thirty seconds and I'm gone, boys.”

Hunk’s mama rolls her eyes and waves her hand. “Out, out of my house so I can do this cake the right way.”

Lance gives her a quick hug, and she squeezes him tight.

“You're having dinner with us after the boxing class,” she says firmly. “I want a real conversation out of you.”

Lance laughs, a little winded, and says, “Yes, ma’am! No objections!”

He hurries after Manti, probably remembering all the times Manti’s followed through on a threat to leave without them, and Hunk gives his mama a warm hug.

“Don't hit him too hard,” she whispers, “I don't want to explain to his mother why he's black and blue after his first day with us.”

Hunk makes an exasperated sound. “Mama, it's not that kind of class.”

“Well, whatever class it is—”

“Hunk! Five seconds!”

Hunk hurries to the door, waving as he runs. “Good luck with the ugly cake!”

He doesn't think he imagines the _splat_ on the front door after he shuts it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll write something short for Hunk's chapter before bed!
> 
> [90 minutes later]
> 
> GDI.


	5. Keith

**• KEITH •**

Keith reaches the studio by bicycle with three minutes to spare. The area outside where he usually leaves his bicycle is already packed, so he hurries around the block to the other illegal parking area people use and chains it to a fence. By the time he jogs back to the studio, up two flights, and lets himself into the room they've rented for the hour, he's coated in sweat and barely on time.

So of course, Shiro is alone, with not a student in sight.

"Seriously?" Keith sinks to the floor with a groan and drops his bag on the floor. He even skipped his usual stop by the convenience store for water. Now he'll have to pay more for the pet bottle version from the vending machine.

Shiro peers over at him from across the room where he's stretching his legs. "Hunk's bringing someone new," he reports, "and Matt canceled. So it evens out."

Keith manages a thumbs up and drags himself off the floor to join his cousin by the mirror. He rarely spends the same amount of time on stretching, so he tries to do the little he attempts in Shiro's line of sight for bonus points.

When Shiro got himself certified to teach boxing two years ago, the media swarmed to make a story out of it. In keeping with the traditional style of cautious domestic tabloids, "Handsome, athletic son of Mayor Shirogane teaches boxing!" is what they went with. With Shiro's permission, his mother sold a few photos of his lesson to the tabloid (probably in exchange for keeping some other smaller, less wholesome story out of the news). When demand for Shiro's lessons got too out of hand, Keith offered to step in and assist. The money it brings in is more than enough to support him, and Shiro approves of anything that gets him around people.

"Wanna try planking?" Shiro asks.

Keith says, "No," and exhales as he pushes deeper into stretching his quads.

"I bet I can do it longer."

"I bet you can," Keith agrees.

Shiro makes a face and pokes his thigh.

Keith swats at his hand and switches position, extending his legs out so he can reach for his toes.

Shiro pokes his ear, pushing Keith to an exasperated huff. " _What?_ "

Shiro smiles, beatific. "You should take your earring out," he says. "Your hair'll get caught in it like last time."

Making sure to grumble loud enough to be heard, Keith climbs to his feet and heads over to his bag. As he's unclipping the hoop from his cartilage, the door opens and Hunk enters, bursting with apologies. Behind him, considerably quieter and already locking eyes with Keith, is someone so pretty Keith promptly shuts down.

Worse, the guy's wearing a pale pink crop top and compression tights. His stomach is smooth with just a hint of muscle, and the fact that Keith can visually confirm such a thing is a kindness he hasn't received from the universe in quite some time.

"I guess he could have brought his bike," Hunk is telling Shiro in English as he hangs up his nylon sports backpack on the wall, "but I told him I think you need one of those folding bicycles to legally take it on the train, also a bag to put it in. But yeah, he lives in Osaka, so bringing his bike would be kind of a pain, and—hey, Keith—my brother drove us partway but he was late for something so he just dropped us at the station and then I forgot how long it takes to walk here _from_ the station, so basically: all my bad, sorry we're late." He takes a spot in the center of the room and claps his hands. "Okie doke! Lance, c'mere, buddy."

Lance, who's still studying Keith and whose smile has been growing in increments since Hunk started rambling, glances over at Hunk and says, "Gotcha." He hangs his own bag on the hook beside Hunk's and crosses the room to where Shiro's handing Hunk one of the jump ropes.

Lance's expression brightens. "Oh, no way!" he says, and looks even happier when Shiro hands him one. "I'm awesome at this!"

Fuck. He's cute, too.

Shiro clearly takes a shine to the enthusiastic one Hunk's brought along and smiles. "I'm Takashi, and this is my cousin, Keith." He offers Lance his hand as an afterthought, years of Westernization via international school kicking in, and Lance hurries to shake it.

Keith maintains more distance, but he attempts a smile when Lance nods at him. He's out of practice smiling at gorgeous men, and he's not entirely sure he got all the way to an actual, visible smile.

While Shiro goes into an explanation of how his lessons usually operate (jump rope, mitt practice, cool down), Keith wanders over to the sound system in the corner and switches Shiro's iPod out with his own. Odds are Shiro's going to lead most of the lesson since Lance says he's brand new to boxing, so Keith estimates he has about fifteen minutes before Shiro realizes his music has been replaced with Keith's.

"All right, we'll start with the jump rope for a minute," Shiro says. "Hunk, two for you."

"Aw, damn," Hunk says. "I thought maybe I'd only do one, too? Since Lance might get lonely after his minute is over?"

"...Aaand go."

Keith takes a spot at the back of the room and watches the two of them in the mirror's reflection. Hunk, despite his wheedling, has six months of training built in and he manages fine. Lance, on the other hand, can't seem to keep the rope going, tripping on it almost as many times as he successfully jumps over it. His face reddens more and more as the seconds tick by, and Keith finds himself fascinated by how bad he is at this.

"Forty seconds!" Shiro calls over the music. Then he peers at the speaker, frowns, and gives Keith a "come on, seriously?" face.

Keith throws him a sarcastic peace sign. Today, GReeeeN wins over Green Day.

Lance trips again and whines, "Why do I suck at this today?"

Stuck with his duty to his students, Shiro leaves Keith's iPod alone for the time being and tells Lance, "All right, your minute's up!" He clearly translates the look on Lance's face and says, "Don't worry. You kept going and you didn't quit; that's all that matters for today."

Lance hands him the jump rope, his shoulders drooping despite the encouragement. Beside him, Hunk starts to switch legs the way Keith sometimes does when he's bored.

"Whoo!" Hunk cheers. "Hey, Keith! Look, I'm doing it!"

Keith's smile comes more easily to him this time. "Nice job, buddy," he calls.

He realizes Lance is watching him in the mirror and he can actually _feel_ his smile congealing into something awkward. Lance offers him a tiny nod and Keith ducks his head in a poor imitation of a nod. ...Mainly in how he doesn't lift his head to finish the second half of what a nod usually looks like.

When the timer chirps, Hunk returns the jump rope and bounces on his toes. "I'm ready!" he says, jabbing at the air.

Shiro hands him the gloves and Hunk makes short work of wrapping the velcro strap over both wrists. Shiro gives a fairly informal bow, waits for Hunk to do the same, and demonstrates the first few sequences he's going to take him through. Keith's so intent on pretending he's not _not_ ignoring Lance that he has to fight not to jump when Lance's back hits the wall next to him.

"Hey," Lance says.

Keith's throat closes, so his, "Hey," is hoarser than he intended.

The two of them watch Hunk pummel the mitts Shiro's holding, and it's a testament to Shiro's upper body strength that he doesn't move a centimeter even with Hunk's most powerful strikes.

"Wow," Lance says.

Keith hums, keeping his gaze pinned forward. Not that it does him any good, since he can see Lance's reflection clearly in the mirror behind Shiro and Hunk.

"So, he's your cousin?"

Keith nods and folds his arms around his stomach. "Yeah."

Lance says, "Cool," and actually starts to pluck at the hem of his crop top, which of course only lifts it higher. Keith struggles with the impulse to go to literally any other wall in the room.

"You're up, Lance!" Shiro calls.

Lance shows Keith some kind of expression, but since Keith is fixed on the speaker in the corner, he doesn't see whatever it is.

Shiro gives Lance a complimentary pair of hand wraps to wear inside the gloves and Hunk helps Lance put the actual gloves on. From the glance Shiro sends him, Keith knows he should be the one helping out since he is, after all, here to assist, but he's got his energy wrapped up in barely managing not to come across as a weird social recluse. If Keith has any luck at all, Lance might just think he's aloof.

When Hunk takes the spot Lance just occupied, Keith gradually relaxes.

"So," he says, while Shiro demonstrates for Lance what he'd like him to try, "he's new to Japan?"

Hunk nods, taking a swig from his pet bottle. "Yeah. Our moms went to college together. He just got here, like, a week ago? He only knows me, so I told him I'd show him around. I thought this'd be fun for him. Moving to a new country's stressful, y'know, so like, it seemed like a good idea? Maybe punch some stuff, get some cathartic release, all that. He's a pretty great guy."

The last part has a very different tone, but one Keith can't interpret, so he pretends not to have noticed. "He seems nice," he says, carefully casual.

"He's super nice," Hunk confirms. "Also single."

Keith can't overlook that. He gives Hunk a flat stare that Hunk grins back at.

"Just sayin', man."

Lance isn't nearly as bad with the mitts as he was with the jump rope, to Keith's mysterious satisfaction. He's quick to take direction when Shiro offers it, and when he corrects his mistakes, he rarely makes them again. For a good three minutes, Keith forgets the whole midriff fixation he's been wrestling with.

Then Lance's turn is over and he's sweaty _and_ pretty and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Hunk bats Keith on the shoulder with a wry smirk, then heads out to take the gloves back.

Keith puts his hair up for something to do with his hands that isn't covering his face in mortification.

Of course, Lance comes back to the same spot; it appears Keith has become the rest time entertainment.

"So, do you take lessons with him too, or...?"

Keith shakes his head. "I help out," he says. Then, because it's clear even to him that he's shirking his duties if he needs to explain that at this point in the lesson, Keith adds, "I...should probably help out a little more."

Lance's smile is in his voice when he asks, "Actually, could you?"

Keith meets his eyes automatically and barely flinches. "With what?"

Lance pushes off the wall and takes up the stance Shiro just taught him. "Okay, so like, the foot thing." He extends his right arm, then looks down at his feet. "Which one do I move?"

Relieved for something practical to do, Keith copies Lance's position, only adding the pivot with his right foot.

"Ahh," Lance says with an eager nod, his expression almost feral. "I gotcha, I gotcha. Like this!" He punches much harder than he should and pivots so far he nearly unbalances, and it's such an adorably bad example, Keith just...can't.

"Uh," Keith manages.

Lance wilts a little. "I wasn't aiming for 'uh'," he says. He holds his awkward stance and looks down his body. "What did I do wrong?"

Keith scrambles to find words that will reassure him, but before he can start on a path that will undoubtedly lead to hurt feelings, Shiro appears from the ether (or walked over when he finished with Hunk) and says, "You've almost got it. You're rotating your right foot a little too much. You want to keep the line of your body—"

Close to Keith's ear, Hunk murmurs, "This is, like, the cutest thing I've ever seen from you, dude."

Keith elbows him in the stomach and feels no regret. Especially since Hunk's torso is like sheetrock and Hunk only chuckles at the attempt.

When the lesson is finished, Keith has filled the time with a few more attempts at helping correct Lance's posture while avoiding all Hunk's blatant teasing. Even though he was barely a participant in the whole hour, he winds up at the front of the room with Shiro saying goodbye to them both.

"So, Lance," Shiro says, accepting bills from both of them, "do you think this is something you'd be interested in doing? Kyoto's a bit far from Osaka, but if you're interested, we'd be happy to—"

"Totally!" Lance says. He rubs his bicep with a sheepish smile. "I haven't worked out like this, um, ever, so I'm probably gonna hurt a lot tomorrow but that's all the more reason to keep it up, right?"

Shiro nods, pleased. "That's very true. You're definitely gonna feel it tomorrow, so take a soak tonight in the bath. Most convenience stores sell bath salts good for muscle aches, so maybe pick up a box of those."

Keith devotes his full attention to _not_ imagining Lance in a bathtub. As the three of them take out their phones to compare schedules for the next lesson, Keith makes a quick escape to retrieve his bag. He fishes out his phone and finds a message from Pidge.

[Wanna go to the video game cafe for dinner?]

He types back, [Where?]

Her response is prompt. [Namba, duh.]

He wrinkles his nose. [I'm in Kyoto...]

[Yeah, well, stop being in Kyoto. Come to Osaka! Crash here if you want. Matt's going somewhere tonight so you can have his bed.]

Keith is prepared to refuse when Lance picks up his bag from the hook near Keith's and successfully seizes Keith's entire attention for himself.

"Where are you going now?" Lance asks. "Heading home?"

Hunk and Shiro are chatting by the sound system. Shiro has already unplugged Keith's iPod, plunging the room into silence.

Keith licks his lips and, for some reason he'll never be able to fully explain, says, "I was thinking of going to Osaka, actually. My friend invited me to hang out."

Lance perks up, his happy face clearly a reward for blurting out the truth. "Where in Osaka?" he asks.

"Um, Namba."

"Dude, that's near me!" Lance exclaims. "Wanna catch the train together?"

Keith reviews the last ten seconds of his life, throat dry and brain frying. He barely has the sense to respond, and naturally it's in Japanese, a soft grunt that Lance must already be used to hearing.

"Great!" Lance says. "I have to stop off at Hunk's first and maybe shower, do you think you can wait a bit? You probably want to shower too, right?"

Keith nods. "Yeah, um. I'll give you my LINE info."

"Awesome, man!"

Then, if the entire last hour wasn't torment enough, Lance goes with a move that nothing in the universe could have made Keith ready for. Lance pulls out a tiny drawstring bag, upends a navel piercing into his palm, and proceeds to casually attach it in one smooth, mind-destroying motion.

Keith notes and ignores the smirks Hunk _and_ Shiro are giving him.


	6. Pidge

• **PIDGE** •

Last year when Matt's roommate Devin dropped out of Kyoto University and moved back to England, Pidge happily slid into Devin's vacant room. Matt's seemed content with the change so far–Pidge keeps late hours like him, hunts down the best documentaries on Netflix for them to watch, and mostly keeps her mess contained to the bedroom. Devin, from the stories she's heard, went to sleep at midnight, only consumed superhero-related media, and left dirty dishes all around the apartment.

He wasn't quite the roommate from hell, but Pidge is confident she's a considerable upgrade.

The only downside is that Matt has lost some of his love for Osaka and keeps making noises about moving to Kyoto so he can get to class faster. Pidge, whose university is a brisk ten-minute bike ride from their apartment, strongly disapproves of these noises.

Parked at the counter of a conveyer-belt sushi place near the game center she just lost ¥2000 in, Pidge browses apartments in Takatsuki. It's halfway between Kyoto and Osaka and neither of them is particularly fond of the area, but at least it's a compromise?

A message from Keith arrives bearing a screenshot of his train times. He should be arriving in Namba in another twenty-two minutes. She sends back a thumbs up stamp, then frowns at the starting station, which isn't anywhere near Shiro's boxing studio.

[Where the hell is Kameoka?] she writes.

He sends her a screenshot of Kameoka's place on a map, a good bit west of Kyoto City.

[Whyyyy were you there?] she writes. [Weren't you at the studio with Shiro today?]

[Long story,] is his answer. Then, absurdly, [Do you want a new friend?]

She spots a plate of hamburger sushi and snags it before the dude next to her can. He's been taking every single fried thing on the belt, sometimes breaching conveyer-belt sushi etiquette and reaching _in front of her_ to get things while she's occupied with her phone.

She eats the first piece in one go and sends the dude a sly smirk. He, meanwhile, holds his chin up and pretends he wasn't just utterly, humiliatingly defeated.

[What kind of friend?] she asks Keith.

[His name is Lance. He lives in Osaka. He's a friend of Hunk.]

Pidge frowns at her phone, searching her memory for a Hunk. [Your boxing student?]

[Yeah. You met him.]

[No, I didn't. You gave me a piece of cake he made.]

[Same thing.]

[Keith, no.]

Keith sees it immediately, but his answer doesn't arrive until Pidge has polished off another two plates of fried things just to piss off the dude next to her. He's really struggling to look disinterested now; his ears are turning red.

[Whatever,] is what Keith finally decides to go with. [Lance is with me on the train and he lives near Namba so can I ask him if he wants to hang out with us?]

Pidge has known Keith for a year, ever since she started hanging out with Matt and then Shiro by extension, and he's introduced her to exactly zero people. She's intrigued.

[Sure. Let's meet in front of the cafe.]

[Got it.]

When Pidge calls over someone to tally up her plates, the guy next to her barely masks his delight. Pidge suppresses an eye-roll, trying to accept her victory with as much poise as possible. This is one of the few conveyer-belt sushi places in Namba she frequents, and she has a reputation in here to maintain. The staff occasionally give her discounts because she's a student, she speaks Japanese fluently, and they think she's adorable. She makes sure to give the beaming chef a polite bow of her head as she ducks out the front door into the alley.

Thief dude is already merrily slathering a newly-gotten basket of fries with mayonnaise.

By the time Pidge reaches the cafe, it's almost two o'clock and the tourist foot traffic is at its peak. She estimates Keith and his friend will still be another ten minutes if they're walking from the station, so she leans against the building wall and fires up her Korean language app. She and Matt have English, Japanese, and Italian; she's determined to get a fourth before he has time to think of it.

A crowd of high school boys pass by, shouting and laughing and apparently completely unconcerned with the time of day and who sees them in uniform but out of school. Pidge wonders how many times a day a disgruntled person with free time calls a high school somewhere in the country to complain about students ditching class, and how many times a school attendant has to hold back a sigh and pretend it's both shocking and appalling. Pidge only remembers one or two occasions where cutting class earned her a lecture from someone at school—the rest came from her parents who heard about her skipping class from one of their many sources. Military families, Pidge has learned, lurk in the least likely of locations.

When she tilts her chin up for another routine check of the street, she spots Keith approaching. Next to him is a guy with an iPhone.

"Ew," she says, pointing at it. "Put that away."

The guy—Lance, Lance, right—frowns with his whole face and looks to Keith for an explanation.

"She hates Apple," Keith offers.

"Ew," Pidge reiterates.

"And manners."

"Rude!"

Lance wrinkles his nose at her. "Oh, you're a tech snob, huh?" he asks.

" _Snob?_ " Puberty only granted her two inches, but Pidge uses them to great effect coupled with utmost indignity. "Ex _cuse_ you, but the rectangular frisbee in your hand would offend anyone with a working knowledge of—"

Keith says, "Please stop," with such strain in his voice that a dull, dusty alarm in the back of Pidge's mind starts to flash.

She studies his face, baffled by the incomprehensible emotion there. "Why?" He usually enjoys her rants about Apple.

Lance, meanwhile, seems both insulted and fascinated, his arms folded over his chest as his eyes track left and right between Pidge and Keith. The frisbee is out of sight, at least.

"Just—" Keith slices his hand through the air a few times in a helpless gesture that he seems to think is more eloquent than words. "Maybe save the tech rant? We're both hungry and he didn't know. Now he knows. Cut him some slack."

Lance gives Keith a small smile that raises a few questions in Pidge's mind.

"Hm," she says, then gives Lance a beleaguered look. "Fine. I'm Pidge. Thank you for putting the baby teething toy away. Let's go up." With that, which is a more than generous introduction in her opinion, she turns and heads up the stairs to the cafe. Silence roars behind her, but Pidge isn't bothered. According to the cafe's Twitter, they just got in Overcooked for the Switch and they're serving mini cheeseburgers later on.

When she opens the door at the top of the stairs, the person who keeps it open with a hand on the glass over Pidge's head is Lance.

"Are there things you _do_ like?" he asks. There's just enough levity in his tone that Pidge lowers her hackles a bit.

"Here," she says.

Most of the video game cafes in the area boast dark interiors, comfy chairs on the floor, and screens in all directions with a variety of consoles from all eras. This place, on the other hand, is bright with neon, stuffed with sofas, and focused on an Eighties decor that Pidge and Keith both find amusing and comfortable.

It's become their regular haven over the last three months, a cove to hide in whenever they need to escape the noise and bustle outside.

"Cool," Lance says, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. He's staring at a Super Nintendo system across the room with such reverence, Pidge magnanimously lifts him out of the negative score he had and resets him to zero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, another chapter! In large part because I got my first comment on this and I was wildly enthused. \:D/ Thank you so much, speaks!


	7. Lance

• LANCE •

When Lance told his friends back home that he'd gotten a job in Japan, they gave him shit about "yellow fever" every single day until the day he left. His dick of a best friend even printed out bingo cards based on it; most of the squares were too long to remember, but "maid café", "soapland", and "host club" were all definitely included. The afternoon Lance found one of them in the glove compartment of Alonso's car, he rolled his eyes and threw it out the window to loud, laughing complaints from his friends. He pretended it didn't faze him at all, but if he's honest with himself, it _has_ driven him to seek dates exclusively with other Westerners.

 _Yellow fever my ass,_ he thought.

And then he met Keith.

Six days into his life in Japan, determined not to be one of Those Guys, and he's already crushing on a local.

In Lance's defense, though, Keith's, like, _irrationally_ hot. He isn't friendly or cheerful or sweet or polite like the other locals Lance has interacted with since he arrived. Instead, he's inscrutable and quiet and that infuriatingly effortless kind of gorgeous, like he doesn't know and wouldn't care that he could make modeling agents weep with gratitude just for the chance to represent him.

It's not Lance's _fault_. He has _eyes_ and no matter what angle you look from, he is the _victim_ here.

There isn't a _thing_ Lance can find wrong with the guy. He has an _earring_ , his hair looks so _soft_ , and his face is just— _unfair_ is really the only word that applies, honestly. Even his English is flawless, so Lance can't even use "language barrier" as a possible deterrent. Sure, there's a tiny bit of Japanese inflection on some of his words, but otherwise he sounds almost American, which leads Lance to wonder if he was even raised in Japan at all.

The universe punishes him for that thought by sending him a torrent of flashbacks to every time an American complimented him on his English.

Still, after a week of introductions to people with names like "Kenjiro" and "Hiroko" and "Nana" and "Tatsuya" and "Takashi"—"Keith"? There's a story here, right?

Five minutes into their train ride to Osaka, Lance figures out a way to ask him about it that probably won't offend him.

"So, like...'Keith'?"

Nailed it.

Keith, sitting opposite him in the four-seater they managed to snag window seats in, meets Lance's eyes and lifts his eyebrows. "Mm?"

He...definitely doesn't sound like he got the question.

Great.

Outside, the buildings of Kyoto whip past. As the train picks up speed, the blunt shapes of cheap concrete buildings start to blend with the intricate outlines of wind-weathered pagodas and traditional wooden houses. Most of the passengers around them are passing the time in silence, peering down at smartphones or napping with their heads slanted in various directions. The only noise is courtesy of the pack of high school boys standing near the doors and now Lance.

Conscious of being the only obvious Westerner in the car, Lance tries to keep his volume down. "Uh, no, I meant, uh." Keith's gaze is steady and unflinching. "I like your name?"

... _What?_

 _Why_ did he say that? And _why did he say it like it was a question?_

Keith receives this new information with a similar degree of confusion. "Thanks?" he says, and Lance knows he isn't imagining the suspicious-sounding lift at the end of the word.

Cool, now Keith thinks he's weird. He's seen Lance suck at jumprope and now he thinks Lance is weird. Awesome. Fantastic.

Worse than that—Lance can't think of a way to save it, so he just nods, hating himself kind of a lot, and fixes his focus on the scenery outside. Damn it, damn it, _why?_

He's 74% sure the woman standing in the aisle peering down at her phone is smirking at Lance's expense.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Keith unlock his phone and tap out a message to someone using roman letters. By propping his elbow on the window ledge and resting his chin on his palm, Lance manages to set up a relatively convincing tableau so he can... _observe_ Keith without being an overt creep.

His findings are worth the subterfuge. For example, Keith frowns when he texts, and his skin is _really_ nice; he must take care of it, which is definitely a plus in Lance's book (ugh, come _on_ , just _one_ flaw). Also, the material of Keith's large black T-shirt is of fine enough quality that it seems to ripple whenever he moves, and his jeans are dark and cheap and shredded at the knees; it's an outfit that really shouldn't work. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe Lance is just smitten. Maybe he's got a disease. Maybe it's _Keith_ fever.

Well, fine. If he's smitten, he's smitten, and Keith is still choosing to sit with him, so why not bring his A game?

He finds a casual smile and waits until Keith glances up from his phone with a hint of wariness that wasn't there before. "I bet you get a lot of _namba_ ," Lance says.

He's only known the word for about four hours, but it's a useful one. Manti used it in the car when he told Hunk he'd seen some guy earlier in the day try to "namba" a lady and got _historically_ shot down. Hunk explained to Lance that it basically means "flirt with" or, like, "try to pick up" someone.

Keith, to his horror, doesn't seem to _know_ the word. "Namba," he says, flat.

And...the way his voice sounds—Lance sighs. "I used the word wrong, didn't I?" he asks.

Keith's mouth twitches in the smallest indication of a smile. "Yeah," he says. "I think you mean _nampa_. Namba's the neighborhood where I'm meeting my friend."

Right. Sure it is. _Of course_ it is. He _lives near Namba_.

Lance groans and brings both hands up to his face in an irrational attempt to to scrub the blush off his face.

When he's ready to face the world again, the sight of Keith smiling down at his phone gives Lance something _terrible_ : hope.

So, yeah.

Lance's Terrible Friends: 1, Lance: 0.

The most he can hope for now is that none of them find out, and if they do, that they don't have a square in Yellow Fever Bingo for "hot boxer".


	8. Shiro

**• SHIRO •**

Being the only child of a political figure can put Shiro in some bizarre situations, like playing tour guide for a diplomat’s family. It’s his own fault for choosing to go to grad school in Kyoto, though, the country’s most popular tourist destination.

He should have gone rogue after high school and become a woodcarving apprentice somewhere in Kyushu.

The message he received from his mother this morning explained that she had promised to show this important family around, but her schedule can’t allow her to leave Yokohama at the moment, etc. etc. etc. The usual.

So, once he’s watched Keith head off with Lance and Hunk, Shiro locks up the studio and races home to shower.

The moment he toes off his shoes, a pitiable whining sound from deep inside the house sets his nerves on end.

His mother is in Yokohama, Keith is heading to Hunk’s place and then Osaka, so the only other person with a key is—

“Matt?”

“Hey, Shiro!”

Shiro follows the sound of his voice to the living room where Matt appears to be creating the paper version of chaos.

The floor is a cacophony of looseleaf, notebooks, printed notes, and four open textbooks. Matt is in the center of it, on his back, serene and smiling like a fallen angel.

Shiro pretends he didn’t think that. “How long have you been here?” he asks.

Matt doesn’t open his eyes. “Six hours? Five days? My whole life?” There’s a dreamlike lilt to his voice, like he’s tempted to sing it.

Shiro sits on the sofa and pokes Matt’s forehead with his socked toe. “You’re having a crisis, aren’t you?”

“Mm, yup.” Matt opens his eyes and regards Shiro with cherubic anxiety. “I’m going to move to Hokkaido and become an ice fisherman.”

This happens roughly once every two weeks, and Shiro usually just allows Matt to whine until the threat of failing out is more mortifying than his exhaustion with higher education. Today, though, Shiro is facing an afternoon trudging through the cold streets explaining the history of temples and shrines he’s visited thousands of times before, and Matt’s presence in his house seems too perfect to be a coincidence.

“Wanna help me out instead?” he asks.

Matt flips onto his stomach with surprising dexterity for someone having an existential crisis. “Can do, Taka,” he says, giddy. “What are we doing?”

Shiro smiles wryly. “You’re not gonna finish any of this, huh?”

Matt blows a dismissive jet of air through his lips. “I’d rather do literally anything else. Are you murdering your mom’s political enemies? I’d be up for that. Grocery shopping? Kicking over rows of illegally-parked bicycles? Hacking into the government servers to change public holiday names? Driving to—um.” His eyes track up to the ceiling, then back to Shiro’s face. “I forgot what we’re talking about.”

Shiro, who was enjoying the list, grins and says, “My mom asked me to show around some Australian diplomat’s family.”

“Oh, that sucks.”

“I was thinking it’d be more fun if you joined us.”

Matt seems to perk up, literally puppylike with enthusiasm. “Are we getting an expensive dinner courtesy of the taxpayers’ money?” he asks.

“I…damn.” Shiro rubs the bridge of his nose. His mother did, indeed, tell him to charge everything he can to her card and get receipts for whatever he can’t, and her assistant reserved a room at an unlisted teppanyaki restaurant, the kind of place that doesn’t include prices on the menu.

If he brings Matt, he’s treading on dangerous ground. Two years ago, Shiro’s mother landed herself in the middle of a scandal over her exorbitant trips to ski resorts under the guise of business trips. She justified it both at home and to the press as promoting Japanese tourism to foreign dignitaries, and it went away for a while, but another misuse of funds could easily bring her name back under fire.

An idea curls in Shiro’s mind, and he snaps his fingers. “Give me a few minutes.” As he pulls out his phone, he realizes Matt hasn’t actually agreed to go and gives him a sheepish look. “You…do want to go, right?”

Matt blinks. “Of course! Just, y’know, not at the expense of your mother’s job.”

Shiro nods, pleased, and says, “Leave it to me.”

•

Shiro and Matt walk to the Ritz Carlton, puzzling the staff in top hats clearly prepared to receive guests in taxis or cars. They barely slip, though, bowing as one rushes over to ask how he can help them.

“We’re going to meet some business associates,” Matt tells him.

The sound of him speaking Japanese has always sent bolts through Shiro’s chest. He has a knack for it, just like most of the pursuits he tries.

Of course, Matt didn’t have any formal clothes at Shiro’s house, so Shiro decided against wearing a suit and making Matt look underdressed and borderline disrespectful. Instead, he put on white slacks and a black sweater and let Matt borrow a button-down white shirt and a maroon waistcoat.

He looks nothing short of stunning.

They’re probably dressed just professionally enough to get away with it, Shiro thinks. His mother would be horrified, but that’s what she gets for dropping this on his head on the day of.

They’re escorted to a waiting area with sofas where a staff woman is waiting for a white couple to sign off on their check. Matt and Shiro sit on the sofa opposite and wait until the staff woman leaves to fall into their favorite game of speaking nonsense Japanese in front of tourists to try and make each other laugh.

“I hope we make it to the university in time to throw spoiled pumpkins at the dean,” Matt says.

Shiro gives up immediately, laughing into the sleeve of his sweater.

Matt grins. “That was too easy.”

He’s not wrong. Their average is about six exchanges, back and forth, but Shiro’s just imagining some tabloid article writer contacting the mayor’s office with the sordid scoop that her son is engaging in petty vegetable warfare against university staff.

When the diplomat arrives, it’s clear by the way he walks and the way he zeroes in on Shiro. He’s trailed by presumably his wife and his son, who looks about Keith’s age.

Shiro introduces himself and explains Matt’s presence as his classmate who knows Kyoto much better than Shiro does.

Matt is kind enough not to snort at that, though under different circumstances Shiro knows he absolutely would. More often than not, he’s the one messaging Shiro for help when he blunders the bus system.

The diplomat shakes Shiro’s hand and says, “My name is Corbet Zarkon-Haggar, this is my wife Honerva, and our son Lotor.”

Honerva smiles and takes Shiro’s hand as Corbet takes Matt’s. Lotor also shakes their hands, but there’s less enthusiasm in his grip and more of an exhausted drag at his features.

“Welcome to Kyoto,” Shiro says, stepping back to Matt’s side. “This is your second night, right?”

Honerva nods. “We used the first day to get used to the time difference. The rest of our stay is locked down, so we very much appreciate your taking the time to show us around the city.”

Their graciousness seems sincere, and Shiro feels a thread of guilt for his reluctance to do this in the first place. He claps Matt on the shoulder, just to make him jump (which he does), and says, “Well, let’s grab a taxi, then. We can start at the Golden Pavilion. It’s closing for the day soon and most people think it’s a must-see.”

Most taxis are sedans and won’t fit their number, so Matt suggests taking two. He turns his brilliant smile on Lotor, which seems to throw the guy for a loop.

“How about it?” Matt says. “You and me, and Shiro can ride with your parents.”

Lotor says, “All right,” with a dismissive glance at his parents.

Shiro doesn’t object, even though every iota of his being opposes this idea. As Matt leads Lotor to the taxi idling behind the one Corbet and Honerva are climbing into, Shiro watches Lotor’s expression for any signs of…literally anything. But Lotor’s face is blank, with hardly a twitch of reaction.

“Sir?” one of the staff prompts, gesturing to the passenger’s side door.

Shiro nods and thanks him, determining to leave his jealousy on the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having some fun playing around with Zarkon and Haggar’s names in this universe, as well as reinterpreting what they’d have been like as parents without the whole space colonialism thing going on. ;)
> 
> Also I made the three of them Australian because their canon races are Galra/Altean so I figured, “Eh, I’ll just do whatever I want.” And then I did. :D


	9. Allura

• **ALLURA** •

The hunt for public trash bins in Japan is constant. Allura's lived here long enough to know that convenience stores usually offer bins just outside their doors for both recycling and rubbish, but this posh area of Kyoto likes to disguise its convenience stores as boutiques with traditional-looking dark wood fronts. Part of her considers the ramifications of chucking her unwanted crumpled wad of paper into the open street, and maybe if she'd spent the last five years living somewhere more fearless like Osaka, she might go through with it. But alas, the prim and expectant atmosphere of Tokyo always travels with her even into deep into the heart of the bold Kansai region.

The toes of her left foot send a brutal sting through her legs, reminding her that she's in impractical shoes on cobblestones and she hasn't sat down in over an hour. She sighs and stuffs the paper ball in her pocket, not quite Tokyo enough to swallow her sulk.

Nyma's job is running late, and it's getting dark.

Not that it's Nyma's fault, of course, and it's Allura's own fault she's here freezing on the streets of Kyoto rather than at home in Nyma's Kobe apartment with tea and slippers. She wanted to come, to spend every possible minute with her girlfriend on this weekend they managed to keep open for each other. Well. Until this morning.

When Nyma got the call from her agent at nine o'clock, she'd grimaced at Allura across their shared pillow, clearly replaying every fight they've ever had about Allura staying late at the embassy and missing dinner reservations. Allura'd felt a pinch of guilt for that and shook her head, making expansive gestures with her hands. _Take the job! I'll go along too!_ was the sentiment she was going for, regardless of how clearly it was delivered.

When Nyma hung up, Allura tried not to think about the ruined day and offered her best smile. Nyma needs the money, always, and for whatever reason there hasn't been as much of it flowing in recently as there usually is. "You have to take the work when it's available, right?" she said, reaching under the covers to take the hand Nyma isn't using to clutch her phone. "It's not a big deal, really!"

Nyma opened her mouth, likely tempted to point out that they'd rescheduled yesterday's spa date, the one they'd had to cancel because Allura missed her first train, for this afternoon. But she bit her bottom lip instead and said, "This really sucks," and held her arms open.

Allura melted a little inside and scooted forward, hugged her around the waist and rubbing her nose along the smooth slope of Nyma's neck. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "How about I go too?"

The laugh that ran through Nyma was more sensation than sound. "I don't think I can bring my girlfriend on set," she said, running her fingers over the bare skin between Allura's shoulder blades. "I'm not that powerful and important yet."

"I could pretend to be your assistant?"

Nyma hummed like she was actually considering it. "You _did_ bring your work clothes...."

Allura grinned against her shoulder, snuggling in against her girlfriend until Nyma squeezed her arms tighter. "I could make ridiculous demands on your behalf," she suggested.

"Violet cushions on my chair, with leopard print fabric."

"Tiger print, darling, don't be gauche."

Only when they finished breakfast and Nyma started gathering her scarf and mittens and coat did she notice Allura doing the same and seem to realize that Allura really intended on accompanying her. Her half-smile grew into a much brighter one.

"You _are_ coming?" she asked, tentative.

Allura paused with her arms halfway into the sleeves of her coat, wide-eyed. "Is that not okay? I could stay here."

Nyma's smile became a grin and she crossed the room in three wide strides, framing Allura's face and kissing her firmly. "No, you ridiculous thing, of course it's okay." She touched their noses and kissed her again, lingering with her eyes closed. "Thank you," she added quietly. "I'll make it up to you."

So, they came to Kyoto. They walked hand-in-hand to the train station, bought hot bottles of tea from the vending machine on the platform, and boarded an express train to Kyoto. Allura napped on Nyma's shoulder while Nyma kept her agent up to date on their progress, and a little girl with dark hair and darker eyes sitting across from them beside her older sister stared at Allura's platinum hair with utter fascination.

Allura offered her a lock solemnly, and the little girl touched it with reverent disbelief, as if it were an actual piece of a cloud. The older sister hid a laugh behind the wrap of her scarf. It wasn't the first time Allura made the day of a very small Japanese child convinced that Allura resembles a fairy or an angel or whichever anime character is popular at the moment, but it always entertains her to see the eyes light up when the child realizes she's real.

At Kyoto Station, she and Nyma parted ways. The train they'd caught had been later than planned and Nyma had to run to the studio on foot. "Someday," she said, holding Allura's hands and kissing her on the cheek, "I'm going to be famous and they're going to pick me up for jobs _in front of my building_."

Allura laughed and sent her off with a swat to the shoulder, and Nyma bolted away through the crowd, her flats slapping the smooth, polished floor.

It left Allura with an open timetable for sightseeing, something she was surprised to realize she'd never had before. Her first two years in Japan were a torrent of English-teaching work, followed by volunteering at the animal shelter near her building. In her third year, she met Nyma and changed jobs. In her fourth, Nyma moved to Kobe and the distance in their relationship required far more attention to timing and detail than before. No matter how back far she casts into her memory, Allura can't actually recall a single afternoon when she had _nothing_ to do.

...Well. She could have, of course, answered her emails from this morning. And there are always projects that she _could_ volunteer her help on, but...

She didn't want to.

So she didn't.

Instead, she bought a one-day bus pass and boarded at random one of the dozen tourist buses in front of Kyoto Station. She sat at the very front by a window, rubbing her hands together, then pulled out her phone. Nyma'd written, [At the studio! Got here a minute early! Envy these runner's legs~] followed by a photo of her bare calves, clearly halfway into her evening gown for the shoot.

Allura sent back a heart-eyed emoji and wrote, [More definition! Flex!]

There was no immediate reply, which probably meant the shoot'd begun. Allura locked her screen again and pocketed her phone, settling into the seat with a sigh that released some of the tension from her shoulders.

It came back.

With a vengeance.

She visited three shrines, each one teeming more than the last with tourists framing selfies and shoving to get past each other and yelling at volumes unheard of in Japan's more domestic spaces, and now it's nearly six o'clock and the amber sunlight through the trees of the park she's found is weakening. She's cold, she hasn't heard from Nyma in hours, and she's starting to wonder if Nyma would be upset if she went back to Kobe without her.

Her stomach makes an opinionated gurgle and Allura groans. The idea of going to a restaurant in Kyoto at this hour is almost more intimidating than leaving the serenity of this tiny isolated park she's managed to find. Everywhere will be stuffed with people, she's sure, and she's not sure whether Nyma will want to eat as soon as her shoot finishes.

She sits on a cold stone bench and gazes at a tiny wooden shrine no larger than a refrigerator. She wonders absently who the god inside is supposed to be, what the shrine is called, if it shares a name with this beautiful little concrete park the size of Nyma's living room.

Allura slips off her work heels and rubs the insole of her right foot, hissing out when it aches in reply. She packed for this weekend trip with a mind to stay indoors, barefoot, either on Nyma's couch or tucked into her bed. If she'd known she'd be traipsing around Kyoto playing tourist on a Saturday, she might've packed flats. Or sneakers.

She glances at her phone and finds a message waiting, timestamped four minutes ago.

[Hey, sweetheart! Are you hungry? I'm going to eat this gown, I swear. It's okay if you've already eaten, I just really, really need food ASAP.]

Allura presses her chilled right hand to her neck for a moment to warm it, then writes back, [I haven't eaten! Are you finished?]

[My agent actually wants to take us out! I told him you're here for the weekend and he feels bad, so he's going to treat us to food!]

Allura perks up, the stress that's seeped back into her shoulders and drawn them taut again releasing. Nyma's agency is on the higher end, and remembering the photos Allura's seen of the dinners Nyma's eaten on their yen sends a bolt to her empty stomach. [That sounds LOVELY! Where shall we meet?]

[Rolo says he knows a Samoan place nearby. His friend Manti works there, so he got the three of us a party room in the back.]

Allura receives a set of directions to the station they're to meet at and her spirits lift immeasurably. She stands and glances at the little shrine, its golden deity housed inside with a sly smile. Before she leaves the park, Allura tosses a hundred-yen coin into the box and says a private little _thank you_ for the shelter from the crowds and perhaps for the nudge into better luck for the rest of her day.

On the way out, she finds a garbage can tucked near the exit.


	10. Hunk

**• HUNK •**

Around six o'clock, while Hunk is playing Stardew Valley in bed on his Switch and sipping his post-workout smoothie, he gets a message from Manti requesting backup at the restaurant. [I know you're not on tonight, but I'm slammed with the regular crowd AND two models and some politicians in suits. Bike over ASAP.]

Hunk groans and casts a plaintive pout at his paused game. He's two days from the fall festival and he's got a surefire grange display planned with more than enough points to guarantee him first place. But he's already opened Manti's message, so there's no chance of pretending he hasn't seen it. If he ignores it, Manti will probably drench him in leftover marinade while he's sleeping.

[Fine,] Hunk writes, [do you need me RIGHT right now?]

[YES HUNK. NOW. MOVE.]

Hunk rolls his eyes and mutters, "Oh, well, hey. 'Please'? You don't need to say 'please,' Manti. We're _brothers_ , and I'm _happy_ to toss my chill time aside just because you want to hang out with the cool new customers. It's my pleasure, and really, I should be thanking _you_ for the _opportunity_ to—"

The tangent fuels him from the bed to his closet, from the closet to his bicycle, and from their house to the restaurant. Manti's a social animal, and always has been, and it's probably thanks to that that he's been able to attract so many regulars to eat at Losi. But if he's struggling, it might be time to hire some actual, full-time help. And _not_ depending on Hunk's free labor and rapidly diminishing fraternal good will.

It's significantly colder now than it was when he and Lance finished boxing class, and it occurs to Hunk as he navigates the narrow pedestrian streets between old-style houses that if he'd accepted Lance's invitation to go play video games with them in Osaka, he'd have a legitimate excuse not to answer Manti's call for aid.

But.

Well.

It was pretty obvious between Lance's "help me out, buddy" smile and Keith's hesitant glances at them over his phone that the two of them were hoping to keep the participants small in number. They'll be dating by Wednesday.

Hunk parks his bicycle in the thatch of weeds sprouting out of the concrete behind the restaurant, locks the back wheel, and shuffles into the kitchen through the back door.

"I'm here," he says, sighing.

"Wow, I don't think that could've sounded less enthusiastic."

Hunk struggles to process the scene in front of him. Manti is at the stove as usual with his back to Hunk, but on the countertop beside him—where the food prep takes place, mind you—a half-Japanese, half...something else lady is seated, idly swinging her legs and peering at Hunk with interest.

"Ez, this is my little brother," Manti says over the hissing from the frying pan. "Hunk, my friend Ezor. She's Kyodai, too."

"Oh," Hunk says, even though hearing that she attends their university doesn't help explain why her butt is on the food prep area. "Nice to meet you."

She hops down and offers her hand to him with a twinkle of amusement that says she was probably raised in Japan and finds the Western custom amusing. "Pleasure," she says. "My actual name is Eiko, but your brother's a dick."

Hunk shakes her hand while Manti cackles and moves on to plating the meal he's made.

"Is he making you help too?" Hunk asks her.

"No," she says, laughing. "I just spent a week in Thailand with my friends, and Manti said he'd give me his notes, but he keeps blowing me off."

"I'm _working_ , holy shit," Manti says. "She fucking stalked me to work and I'm supposed to drop everything to help her from failing out—which is her own fucking fault if she does."

"Still waiting on those notes, manticore."

"Fuck, all right, fine." Manti picks up two plates on either hand and finally faces them, aiming an exasperated look at Hunk. "Get her my notebook from the backseat of the car for fuck's sake while I _do my job_. Then hurry the fuck back here and get a roux started for the fucking soup." Without further direction or commentary, he whirls out of the kitchen. The noise that pours in from the seating area is intense enough that Hunk feels a little guilty for the private whining tangent he went on earlier. It seems like Manti genuinely needs the help.

Eiko?—Ezor?—Food Prep Area Defiler gives him a winning smile and with her bare, toned arm she scoops a grand, sweeping gesture at the door. Amused despite himself, Hunk leads the way outside where Manti usually parks his car.

His older brother is in his last year of university, but while most of his friends are attending hundreds of job interviews and panicking about Careers, Manti has pretty much decided on trying to keep Losi afloat. The place—Samoan cuisine with twists in flavor that make the food palatable and familiar for the Japanese diners—has been Manti's baby ever since last year when their mothers got too busy with their wedding planning business to run it anymore. They were on the verge of closing it down when—to the surprise of the entire family—normally lackadaisical Manti leaped to its defense. Their mothers still technically own the building and the land it sits on, and their animated beaming faces grace the covers of the menus, but in all other respects from the menu items to the food prep itself, it's Manti's.

"So, um, why does he call you Ezor?" Hunk asks the defiler as he digs through the backseat of Manti's car.

"Oh." She laughs and leans on the car with her arms folded. "I started calling him 'manticore' in our second year of university. Ezor was the best he could come up with to retaliate. Now most of our friends call me that anyway, and he's still just 'Manti' to everyone but me."

"Gotcha. Um. What should I call you...?"

"Whatever you want. Ezor is fine. Don't tell Manti, but I never liked my given name much anyway."

Hunk's fingers brush something notebook-shaped and he tugs it out of the passenger's seat pocket with a victorious sound. When he straightens up, she's standing on her own power again, hands on her hips, and giving him an enigmatic smile.

She accepts the notebook and waves it a little. "Thanks a lot," she says. "So, maybe I'll see you around the university."

He blinks at the shift in her tone of voice. Is she...flirting with him?

"Um. Yeah. Maybe."

"Hopefully," she adds, definitely more on the playful side now.

Before Hunk can decide how he feels about this, she's walking toward the front of the restaurant with the notebook tucked under her arm. Her long ponytail reaches her lower back, and it swings out like a heavy rope as she turns the corner. She doesn't look back.

"Uhhh," Hunk says, to no one. "What was that?"

"HUNK! ROUX! FUCK!"

He should have gone to Osaka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually kind of glad I took such a break with this, because I'm pretty fond of Lotor's generals and now I can include them, too. :D


	11. Keith

**• KEITH •**

Hanging out at the video game cafe usually consists of Pidge actually playing the games while Keith either watches or reads manga on his phone. He’s not sure how Lance will factor into their dynamic, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it. Once Pidge has forgiven Lance for his transgression of owning a smartphone that offends her, the two of them quickly plunge into a stack of competitive two-player SNES games with startling fervor. 

Pidge sets the tone for the evening by winning a racing game and a melee game, then Lance upsets the pattern by trouncing her in a martial arts game. Somehow they reach an agreement that whenever one of them wins a round, the other one has to buy snacks for their table.

Two hours and seven orders later, the wait staff both love and hate them. They also seem to be actively avoiding their table and hiding out in the kitchen whenever possible. Since Lance and Pidge are too busy to actually touch the food, Keith enjoys it all on his own, contentedly wedged into his beanbag chair with his back against the wall and his feet crossed at the ankles under their table.

It isn’t until Pidge is laughing, Lance is screaming at the screen, and Keith is demolishing a tray of piping hot takoyaki on his own that Keith notices Lance’s clothes are different. The crop top and compression tights he wore to the studio earlier are gone—probably in his backpack—and instead he’s in a loose, long-sleeve shirt and an even looser pair of jersey pants that he must have borrowed from Hunk or one of his brothers. As nicely as the crop top suited him, there’s something about Lance in clothes too big for him that gives Keith trouble concentrating.

He burns his fingers on the steam of a particularly hot takoyaki ball and sucks on his fingers with a grimace. _Calm down_ , he tells himself, as if it’ll do any good. _You’ve known him for like, two hours._

Or…well. More like six at this point. But six hours isn’t nearly long enough to be imagining Lance in those same clothes, cuddled up in Keith’s bed, waiting for Keith to finish brushing his teeth and _what did I just fucking say?_

“Hey, Keith,” Pidge says, eyes fixed on the screen. “Saw your aunt on TV this morning.”

Before Keith can wonder aloud why that’s worthy of comment, Lance blurts, “Whoa, why?” and squawks as Pidge uses his moment of distraction to pull a devastating punch combo on his character. “Aw, _come on!_ ”

Pidge smirks, barely moving as she deftly maneuvers around her controller’s buttons. This is why Keith doesn’t play with her.

“You met Shiro, right?” Pidge asks. Her character kicks Lance’s across the face. Twice.

Lance leans closer to the screen with a scowl. “Uh, who?”

“My cousin Takashi,” Keith says. “His friends call him ‘Shiro.’”

“Oh! Right, obviously, sorry. I can’t concentrate when—NO! _WHY?_ ”

As his character melts into sludge, Lance flops backward onto the floor and groans with emphatic misery.

Pidge hums and picks up the menu. “What’re you thinking, Keith? Nachos?”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “They use ‘natural cheese’ here,” he says.

“Oh whatever, cheese snob,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m allergic to it!”

“Why’d you ask about Keith’s cousin?” Lance asks. His eyes are still closed but he sounds significantly less put out than he’s behaving. It’s cute. Ugh.

“His mom—Keith’s aunt—is the mayor of Yokohama,” Pidge says.

“I think we’re good on food, Pidge,” Keith says, taking one of the cold French fries drowning in mayonnaise that no one has touched until now. It’s still pretty good, so he ignores Pidge’s exaggerated face of disgust.

Lance pulls himself up and leans his elbows on the table, wide-eyed. “Your aunt’s _a mayor?_ And she was on TV?”

Keith nods.

“Whoa! Why?”

The awe in Lance’s voice is familiar but unwelcome. “She’s campaigning for reelection,” Keith says reluctantly.

“Wait,” Lance says. His nose creases in cruelly adorable confusion. “Isn’t Yokohama, like, way far away? Near Tokyo?”

“Yeah,” Pidge says. She dives unchallenged into the bowl of wasabi peas. “She lives there most of the time, but their family has twelve or thirteen houses scattered all around Japan.”

“Katie, shut up,” Keith snaps in Japanese.

She recoils a little, eyebrows high and mouth tucked into a disbelieving smile. She retorts, “What? It’s not a secret,” also in Japanese.

“Yeah, but I just met him today,” Keith says. He knows Lance’s Japanese level isn’t at zero, but maybe if he talks fast enough, Lance won’t be able to keep up. “I don’t want him to think I’m some spoiled rich asshole.”

“But you are,” Pidge says.

“ _Fuck off._ ”

He realizes too late that even if Lance can’t understand the words Keith’s saying, the anger in his voice is universal. Suddenly cold with humiliation, Keith goes still and resists all urges: to bolt, to cover his face, to keep yelling at Pidge for ruining the whole stoic thing he was trying for….

He doesn’t dare look at Lance.

“Keith’s got a temper,” Pidge tells Lance. There’s a pronounced edge to her teasing tone.

Keith exhales in a burst, annoyed, but he doesn’t bother denying it. After all, he couldn’t keep it reined in for six hours—the chances of him being able to hide it much longer are slim to none. He takes out his phone and opens an app at random, all but begging the two of them to talk about anything else. His Twitter feed is competing to be the first to comment on a mild earthquake in Nagoya, and he scrolls down mindlessly through the torrent of single-worded “earthquake!” tweets.

“You’re into him, aren’t you?” Pidge asks, back to Japanese.

_Fucking—_

“You’re being rude,” he says tightly in English.

“ _You_ started it!” she laughs in English.

“Uh, do I, um. Wanna know what you were yelling about?”

Hearing Lance’s tentative pauses sends guilt raking up and down Keith’s insides. Awesome.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says. He keeps his gaze fixed on his phone, tense everywhere. “My family’s kind of a touchy subject.”

“Hey, man, that’s no problem,” Lance says quickly. “We can talk about something else! I totally understand touchy subjects. Don’t ever ask me about my third summer in university. It was just _bad_ , and everyone who was there has been sworn to secrecy. Seriously, it was embarrassment on a catastrophic level. _No one_ has ever felt embarrassment like I did that summer. I nearly died, I swear. So never ask me.”

It’s a stream of consciousness, almost babble, but the enthusiasm and warmth in his voice reaches out to Keith and without meaning to, he lifts his chin and meets Lance’s eyes somewhere in the middle of his spill of words.

Lance offers a small smile, and Keith’s turbulent mind is soothed blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! I've decided what I'm going to do with this fic! As the new title would suggest, this is going to be the fic that explains how they all met each other. The next fic I'm outlining at the moment is going to be a much longer fic with more of a plot. :D


	12. Pidge

**• PIDGE •**

One of the hills Pidge is willing to die on is this: melon bread is the breakfast of champions.

The bakery at the end of the block makes the best kind—crunchy crust, fluffy insides, and a satisfyingly large dose of green sugar on top—but it opens at nine and closes at six, so it wasn’t open last night when Pidge and Keith passed it at two thirty. The convenience store kind is fine in a pinch, though, and she has three of them spread out on the floor to her right. Quantity to compensate for the minor lack of quality.

The door to Matt’s bedroom is still shut, which probably means Keith’s asleep. It’s only nine, but Pidge has been awake since six and her Switch is probably due for a recharge soon. She has a class at noon, but she's made her peace with skipping it.

As she directs her onscreen character to build a few spite houses around the massive empty lot Matt bought two days ago and hasn’t done anything with, she susses out her impressions on their new friend Lance. First of all, he _could_ be a decent gamer (if he shut up and concentrated). Next, he’s still pretty green about living in Japan (he expects _free wifi_ outside the airport). He's clearly homesick (the home screen wallpaper on his phone is a family photo, and when he noticed Pidge looking, he insisted on explaining the life story of every person in it). He’s probably somewhere on the queer spectrum (so assumed after that one story about his childhood crush who cosplayed Princess Zelda, the lingering smiles at their very masculine waiter—not to mention…). He’s also _embarrassingly_ into Keith.

That will be…interesting.

Behind her, she hears a guttural, “I’m taking a shower,” and she calls, “‘Kay,” without looking up from her Switch.

As the door swings shut, her phone lights up with a message from Matt.

She pauses the game and lifts her phone, intending to show him a screenshot of his lot completely surrounded by her one-floor, one-room spite houses. That is, until she skims his message.

[I may die. Tell Mom and Dad it was while doing something noble, like saving an engineering undergrad from their berserk prototype.]

She writes back, [Okay. What did you actually do?]

[Alcohol. So much alcohol, Katie. Like. Wow.]

[So it’s safe to assume you’re at Shiro’s, or…?]

[I think so. I haven’t picked my head up off the pillow yet but it’s dark.]

[Probably Shiro’s then.] The Shiroganes' fancy house has blackout curtains in every room, including the kitchen for some weird reason.

Matt's next message is, [I think I did something weird last night,] followed by a sheepish sheep stamp.

Pidge’s mouth drops open a little. Is this it? The Moment she and her parents have bets riding on? Has her brother’s ludicrously long-lived crush on Shirogane Takashi finally roared its way into a spoken confession? Is she about to win ¥10,000 from each of her parents for correctly betting that he’d confess while drunk sometime before his graduation?

With so much riding on her victory, [What?] is all she feels safe responding with.

Matt’s answer takes so long to arrive that Keith’s out of the shower, dressed, and sprawled on their sofa by the time even the {…} text bubble pops up.

“I’m wrecked,” Keith shares aloud. “Why did we stay out so late?” His eyes are shut, his hair is dripping on the carpet, and his head is tipped back over the arm of the sofa. Pidge is as gay as he is, but she believes enough in the objective reality of Keith’s beautiful face that she’s sure Lance would be her best friend forever if she sent him a photo of it right now.

“Because,” she says, “you didn’t want to say goodbye to the cute gaijin boy you found.”

Keith makes a downright revolted face and rocks up onto his feet. “I’m gonna dry my hair,” he says.

“Appreciate the play-by-play this morning,” Pidge replies, grinning when Keith fires a middle finger over his shoulder.

In the interim, Matt’s message has appeared.

[Taka and I went to this Samoan restaurant in Kyoto and we met these models.]

Ugh. Damn it. Come _on._ Her father’s long-shot “post-graduation, Takashi at the altar with someone else, ‘speak now or—’” confession bet is getting more and more plausible by the day.

[Uh huh,] she writes back.

[We talked to their agent for a long time, and he said he wants Taka and me to drop by his office…!]

…Oh.

Hm.

She screenshots the conversation and switches windows to her chat box with Shiro. Once the screenshot has gone through, she adds, [omg wtf happened tell me everything.]

Shiro’s answer is prompt. [Uh, your brother was VERY drunk last night. That’s only the first part of the story.]

 _Well_ then!

Keith reappears and steals one of her two remaining melon bread rolls off the floor even though he bought a pair of boiled eggs and like, three onigiri for himself last night.

“You want in on the bet before it’s too late?” she asks him.

Keith pauses mid-chew and regards her with utter confusion. “Huh?”

She rolls her eyes and gestures emphatically at his mouth. “Keep eating, keep eating, jeez.” She turns the phone face-down on Shiro’s {…} to keep things fair and says, “You can’t tell Shiro.”

His answering blink speaks volumes. “You’re betting on Shiro and Matt, aren’t you.”

She grins. “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

He rolls his eyes and takes another bite of the bread. “What’s the pot up to?” he asks.

“So, it’s confession-based,” she explains. “¥10,000 per person. My parents and I are all betting on Matt to confess, but at different times. I’m betting drunken pre-grad shenanigans, Mom’s got ‘post-grad confession by email’, and Dad’s got ‘Hollywood-style wedding-crash’.”

Keith licks a spray of sugar from his cheek and offers a quiet huff of laughter. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’m in. But I think Shiro’ll do it first.”

She furrows her eyebrows at the casual confidence in his voice. “You think so? Why? What do you know, Kogane?”

He makes that infuriating, noncommittal through-the-nose noise she’s been hearing every day in this country ever since she was thirteen. The noise he _knows_ she hates. “My bet’s Shiro’ll do it on graduation day,” Keith says. He shoves the rest of the melon bread in his mouth and smirks as he chews.

In hindsight, she probably should have just enlisted Keith as an ally and shared part of the winnings with him rather than bet against him.

Damn it.

Sulking a little, she turns her phone over and reads aloud for Keith’s benefit, “We took a diplomat’s family around the city yesterday, and had dinner at this Samoan place my student’s family owns. We didn’t so much ‘meet’ the models as we did crash their party by mistake.”

“That’s…new,” Keith observes, his voice bone dry with mirth.

She lets out a snicker of agreement before she continues. “This part is kind of embarrassing, so don’t tease your brother too much. He was already pretty tipsy when this happened. He went to the bathroom at one point and never came back. When I got up to look for him, it turns out he’d mistaken this model for the diplomat’s son, and he was sitting at her table.” A face-palming lion stamp elaborates on Shiro’s feelings about this. “And now Matt’s up, so I’ll tell you the rest later.”

“Sounds like kind of a boring story to me,” Keith says, standing. While Pidge is digesting the many and varied ways such a story could go with her brother involved, Keith stretches his arms behind his back and asks, “What’ve you got going on today?”

She points to the books on the distant desk, the ones she’s very flagrantly ignoring.

He raises his eyebrows but offers no verbal censure. “Wanna get some more melon bread?” he asks.

She frowns and when her hand comes down beside her, it presses down without resistance into two empty wrappers.

“ _Keith!_ ”


	13. Lance

**• LANCE •**

Lance receives his school assignments by email the morning after his adventure to Kyoto. To his dismay, he's been placed in four different schools spread across the Kansai region. On Mondays, he's at the Himeji school in Hyogo (two trains, ninety-five-minute commute, ¥3440 round trip); on Tuesdays and Saturdays, the Shijo school in Kyoto (three trains, one-hour commute, ¥1260 round trip); Thursdays are at the comparatively close Temmabashi school in Osaka (two trains, sixteen-minute commute, ¥760 round trip); he has Wednesdays and Sundays off.

His training group was warned over and over that their first year assignments might be far-flung and not ideally placed for where they live. "The longer you stay," one trainer said, "the more control you have over what schools you get."

When Lance heard that, he deflated a little bit along with a few other teachers-in-training. He already has plans to leave at the end of his year-long contract, so that potential for control doesn't apply to him.

Still, since he only has a year, working at all these distant schools will be a great opportunity to see parts of Japan he wouldn't get to see if he were just working around the corner every day. Himeji's got a massive castle, apparently, and Kyoto has…Keith. ……And temples and stuff.

(Seriously, why _"Keith"?_ Who _named_ him? There's no name in Japanese even _close_ to Keith. He _Googled_ it! The closest Lance got to a Japanese equivalent to Keith's name was just the foreign loan word for "kiss", which sent Lance down a mental path he _should not have been on_ while Keith was _directly in front of him_ beating Pidge at Mario Kart.)

Lance shifts in bed and hisses when a number of muscles prove just how upset they are with him. He's never called upon them in this way before, and they seem less than pleased with his life decisions.

He writes, [Kill me please,] to Hunk and makes crooning noises at the bathroom door, which is so, so far away. Across the room. Like, five whole paces away.

He could always pee in a cup.

If he had a cup.

…He really has to buy more stuff for his kitchen.

Hunk writes back, [A) hangover, B) muscle burn, or C) self-inflicted humiliation in front of Keith?]

Lance makes an outraged noise that's wasted since Hunk isn't here to hear it. It also makes his stomach muscles contract, and those are _not_ happy to do that for him.

[B, you jerk,] Lance writes. He considers leaving C alone entirely, but if he was _that_ obvious, then maybe Keith or Pidge noticed. Or Hunk'll tell them.

[What ABOUT Keith?]

He intends it to come across as playful. But once he's sent it, it looks a little too, uh. Aggressive.

Before Lance can even start to think of how to control the damage, though, Hunk replies, [Keith's pretty gorgeous, man. also: single.]

On the heels of that, another message pops up: [wait is he there now?]

And then another: [if he's there don't let him see the screen!!!]

And _another_ : [waitwaitwait if he's there then are you dating? T E L L ME YOU'RE DATING.]

The time it's taken Hunk to get bloodthirsty for gossip has the likely unintended effect of allowing enough time for the tempest in Lance's chest to disperse. For the most part.

Lance writes back, [We're not dating, man. We played video games with Pidge, then we split up and I came home. Alone. By myself.]

Hunk, however, isn't swayed. He writes, [mmmk. but you WANT to date him though don't you].

Lance knows Hunk.

If Lance says yes, Hunk's going to be relentless. He's going to make dumb faces at Lance the next time they go to boxing, and then Lance is going to want to die, because Keith will be—well…

Lance doesn't actually know how Keith would react. It's not _entirely_ out of the question that Keith could be interested in him, right? They just met, but Lance _definitely_ caught some _not into women_ vibes from the way Keith talked. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean Keith's into _men_ , or—by extension— _Lance_ , but there's a _chance_ , isn't there?

So…it _might_ suck for Lance if he tells Hunk yes, he wants to date Keith. (At least once. To see if he, like, wants to date Keith _long-term_.)

On the other hand, if he lies to Hunk and says he doesn't want to date Keith, then Hunk is _1,000,000%_ not going to believe him _and_ he'll make jokes about how he thought Lance wanted to date Keith ha ha ha isn't that funny, Keith, because that will be his way of punishing Lance for lying to him.

So Lance writes back, [Yes. Help me.]

And Hunk, within two seconds, sends back, [On it.]

Lance stares at his phone, wild-eyed.

 _What did I just put into motion?_ he wonders frantically.

Then he glances at the time and squawks. He'll have to freak out on the train.


	14. Shiro

**• SHIRO •**

With a mother ingratiated in politics, Shiro’s spent most of his life reveling in small rebellions that won’t make headlines. Things like using a nickname instead of his given name, sleeping on the sofa instead of his bed, leaving doors open that his mother asks him to keep shut to save on heating or cooling the house, etc.

Becoming a model, however, would very much be a headline-making rebellion, and a bad one to do as his mother goes into her reelection season. He gets enough media attention for his boxing lessons—joining the entertainment world would probably be a step too far.

Matt knows Shiro’s whole situation better than most, and yet he’s the one sitting on the floor of Shiro’s bedroom with That Smile on his face, trying to get Shiro to say yes to calling the agent they met last night.

To be fair to the guy, he _did_ seem nice. Polite, funny…oddly relaxed for a guy in a line of work that Shiro envisions as being pretty frenetic on a day-to-day basis.

As grad students, Shiro and Matt had no business cards to offer the guy in return for the fancy black-matte-silver-writing cards he gave to them. Shiro has a personal card that he hands out when he makes appearances at his mother’s functions, but something about giving a vaguely politically-aligned card to a modeling agent gave him pause at the time.

Now, he’s glad for that instinct. There are plenty of nice-on-the-surface people who’d be happy to boast online about the connection they made, and Shiro would prefer _not_ to have his photo splashed on social media this early in the…(…afternoon? Probably? With the blackout curtains drawn and his phone far away, it could be anywhere from midnight to noon to midnight.)

“It’d be fun!” Matt says, beaming. “And _you’d_ be great at it, and Nyma seemed to trust him.”

Which…hang on. Nyma. Their brand new…person. A person they spoke and drank with for two hours. She’s their guiding star on this, is she?

Granted, she was…fine? Nyma and her girlfriend spent most of the night asking Matt about his experiences growing up in Japan and laughed genuinely enough whenever Shiro interjected with the True Version of an event Matt tried too hard to polish for public consumption.

Despite Nyma’s approachable vibes, however, Shiro can’t actually recall much about her. Clever, beautiful…probably half Japanese? He remembers more about what _he_ told _her_. Even her girlfriend Allura, the one Shiro talked to the least, gave Shiro a more memorable impression: a person with a miraculously well-organized life.

Very much unlike Shiro’s right now.

“Matt,” Shiro says, with all the calm he can muster, “I’m not becoming a model.”

“Who said ‘become’?” Matt asks. He opens his eyes wide with false innocence. “I definitely didn’t say ‘become,’ did you?”

“Matt….”

For someone who claims to be nursing an historic hangover, Matt’s cheer is oddly resilient. “Think of it as a hobby! A second hobby! Third? You do too much, Taka. And I know the money doesn’t matter to you, but I could _definitely_ use the cash.”

Shiro frowns. “Your family wires you money every month.”

“For groceries! And ‘educational experiences’! My dad does the budget, Taka. It’s brutal. He barely leaves me with enough to get two onigiri a day to rub together.”

“That’s…also not true.”

“ _C’mooon!_ ”

Fewer than twenty-four hours ago, Shiro was facing a mildly tedious day of touring around Kyoto with a visiting diplomat and his family. Somewhere in the time since then, he’s befriended a professional model, her girlfriend, and her agent at a Samoan-Japanese fusion restaurant, and now the boy he’s been crushing on for two years is trying to convince him to model professionally, and Shiro’s brain is just…overfull. Especially with the implications of that last part.

“You don’t have to say yes right away,” Matt cajoles. “Like maybe I’ll do a job, and you can watch!”

_Oh, yes, Shiro! Watch me try on suits and well-fitting jeans and lounge on impractical furniture!_

As if Acting Normal around this man isn’t enough of a herculean task for him already.

Especially now, when Matt’s wearing Shiro’s sweatshirt and pajama bottoms and his light hair is chaotic but soft and the side of his pale face is rubbed red for some reason and also creased by the wrinkled fabric of the futon he slept on last night without a pillow—

In circumstances like this, Shiro can’t be expected to pay complete attention to _himself_ , so he asks with cavalier playfulness, “What makes you think I want to watch you model?”

Once the words are out, Shiro urgently wants them back.

There’s a beat of silence, and Shiro has three full seconds to replay his own question in his head and hear just how easily what he’s said—combined with the _voice_ he just said it in—could be construed as flirtatious.

He could die now. That might be fun.

Because, see, there’s a problem with Matt—one that’s plagued Shiro since they met at Kyoto University’s orientation that first day. He’s observant. Matt’s not a self-deprecating kind of person. He has his personal hangups like anyone else, but he’s always been frustratingly comfortable with who he is, and he understands what flirtation looks and sounds and feels like. He’s always actively looking for his next big romance, after all—he’s honed the skill.

It’s been a long-standing theory Shiro’s built over time that Matt just…likes having crushes on people. Sometimes it only takes a the push of a feather before he’s “falling in love” again. The man loves widely and vehemently and all at once, and even though that _should_ be some comfort—it isn’t.

In fact, it’s the very reason Shiro’s never made _any_ moves on him whatsoever.

Shiro watches in horror as Matt’s face swiftly transforms from _ha!_ to _wait_ to _really?_ and finally _oh_.

Naturally, Shiro had to screw this up in his own house, where his only options are 1) hide in the shower (normal), 2) hide in a different bedroom (a little unusual), or 3) kick Matt out (definitely unusual _and_ rude).

He’s almost tempted—out of desperation—to play the language card, but he’s known Matt for two years and Matt even knows which international schools Shiro went to and that he’s spoken English fluently since he was four years old.

So…well…fuck.

He’s also been paralyzed with terror too long to play it off as a joke, too.

Great.

Well.

If his mother’s career in politics has taught Shiro anything, it’s damage contr—

“Please tell me you’re flirting with me,” Matt says with wide, solemn eyes.

Shiro’s mind blanks.

Then roars back to life.

“Uh….”

Matt’s entire expression brightens. “You are, aren’t you?” He closes the space between the spot on the floor he’s been occupying to Shiro’s bed, shuffling on his knees so quickly he looks more penguin than human. “ _Taka!_ ”

 _Does he think it’s a joke is he joking do I pretend_ I’m _joking I have no compunctions against lying to him right now so I’m gonna say it was a joke and no one can stop—_

Matt rests his forearms on Shiro’s knees. His eager smile is so familiar and sincere, it’s a little too much to absorb full-on.

Shiro says, “I’m gonna be honest—I have no idea what to say right now,” because it’s either honesty or hiding in his bathroom at this point.

Matt’s smile grows. “Okay,” he says. He leans in closer and moves his forearms a handful of centimeters higher on Shiro’s thighs. “Lemme ask you this, then: nod if you like me. In a, like, dating sense.”

This, to Shiro’s relief, reminds him of the overwhelming percentage of Matt that is and always will be an unapologetic nerd, and allows Shiro the dignity to say, “You’re not gonna have me circle ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on a scrap of looseleaf?”

Matt laughs and surges up to grab onto Shiro’s biceps, shaking him until Shiro buckles under the absurdity of all of this and snorts.

“ _How long have you liked me like this?_ ” Matt crows. “I can’t believe you!”

“Why am I the only one getting interrogated?”

“Whatever! I’ll _happily_ tell you my side!” Matt drops back down onto his heels and says, with a smug two fingers presented, “Orientation day, my friend. Crush at first sight.”

Shiro is seized by a myriad tempest of emotions. He settles on defeated and lets gravity slam him into his bed.

“Taka? Did you die?”

“Yup. It’s not so bad, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! We're on the last few chapters, and I've already started the longer fic! Just as a heads up, none of this will be required reading to follow along with the longer fic. It just adds some background. \:D/ I'm just using this to get a feel for the world and the characters.
> 
> (P.S. Adam is in the longer fic SO TAKE FROM THAT WHAT YOU WILL.)


	15. Allura

**• ALLURA •**

With the weekend drawing to a close and Allura expected at the embassy tomorrow morning, Nyma insists on walking her to Shin-Kobe Station. When Allura raises her eyebrows at the blanket-sized scarf Nyma dons over her shoulders, Nyma slyly loops it around Allura’s neck as well.

“I’ll thank you,” Nyma says with over-enunciated dignity, “not to laugh at the stylish accessories I’ve been gifted at my very fancy job.”

Allura exerts a powerful amount of self-control to stop the laugh in her throat. “I do apologize,” she says. “I meant no offense to this…lovely curtain.”

Nyma levels her with a spectacularly dry look, then darts her hands inside the flaps of Allura’s jacket to get at her most ticklish spots under her arms.

“Stop, _stop!_ ” Allura shrieks, giggling as Nyma takes full advantage of the scarf prison she’s put her girlfriend in. “I’ll apologize to the curtain!” Allura crows.

This evening feels decidedly more wintry than autumnal, so their walk to the station is a bit brisker than the one they had from it two nights ago. Allura feels a little foolish about still wearing half of Nyma’s scarf, but they’re close enough together on the sidewalk that most of the people they pass probably aren’t able to tell at a glance that it’s the same scarf.

As the glowing white letters on the station building come into view, Nyma says, “So, I’ll come to Tokyo next to see you,” and turns her head to offer a tiny smile.

Allura’s breath catches. All at once, it slams into her that when she goes to sleep tonight, she’ll be alone again. She won’t be able to warm her chilled fingertips in the warmth of Nyma’s hair, won’t have the comforting solidity of Nyma’s thigh between hers, won’t be able to coax her into an unnecessary second shower in the morning….

She packs most of her longing down, aware that the longer the pause goes on, the faster Nyma will notice and read into it.

It’s not like they’ve never discussed Nyma moving to Tokyo, or Allura to Kobe. Tokyo has ten times more modeling opportunities for Nyma, and Kobe’s city government needs a new Western liaison with Japanese fluency. Either move would make sense.

And yet, neither of them has broached the subject in months.

“I’ll keep the first weekend of December open for you,” Allura says.

Nyma’s expression opens for a moment, then closes again. Her smile is still warm, though, when she says, “Good. Can’t wait.”

As they approach the ticket machines inside the stations, Nyma catches Allura’s wrist and tows her to the side of a column where the crowd is less thick. When Allura frowns, Nyma says, “Wait a second,” with feigned surprise, “what’s _this?_ ” As she withdraws her hand from her coat pocket, there’s a shinkansen ticket on display between two of her fingers. She pokes her tongue out and offers Allura an impish wink.

Allura opens her mouth, then closes it quickly. “Well, _that_ was sneaky,” she says. She takes the ticket and startles further when she notices “green car” printed on it. She jolts her head up, eyes wide. “You—”

Nyma laces her frozen fingers behind the back of Allura’s neck and closes her mouth over Allura’s next word. A businessman nearby shakes his head at the open display of affection as he passes them, but Allura takes a defiant stroke of pleasure in closing her eyes and pressing her hands against Nyma’s lower back to get closer.

As far as she’s concerned, Nyma is half Japanese and therefore allowed to break half the rules. (And if that isn’t quite how it works, Allura is comfortable claiming cultural ignorance so she can kiss her girlfriend goodbye in peace.)

When they part, Nyma’s eyes are crinkled at the corners. “I wanted to send you home in style like you deserve,” she says. Then, with a wry twist to her mouth, “And like you’d never do for yourself.”

Allura allows that with a noncommittal hum. She knows Nyma doesn’t have the kind of money to spend on business class train seats. Bringing that up now, though…it would be rude, perhaps. Certainly not what Nyma is expecting.

Well.

What’s done is done, and what’s bought is bought.

“Thank you,” Allura tells her.

Nyma’s eyes track across Allura’s face. “You’re welcome,” she says with warmth.

_“…superexpress NOZOMI…bound for Tokyo…arriving at track two…”_

Nyma’s smile loses some of its vivacity. “I should let you go.” She glances down at the scarf a little wryly. “Literally.”

Allura finds a laugh for her and decides she’ll even things out between them financially when Nyma visits Tokyo next month.

A middle-aged woman is watching them from a nearby bench, but Allura can tell it’s with amusement as Nyma puts exaggerated focus into unwinding the scarf from Allura’s neck. The woman catches Allura’s eye while Nyma’s trying to find somewhere to put the extra fabric (finally settling on a thick coat pocket) and Allura is struck by the feeling that she knows that woman’s face from somewhere.

Somewhere political.

“All right, gorgeous,” Nyma says. She claps her hands on either side of Allura’s face and leans close. “One more kiss and then you’ve _really_ gotta get going before I blow off my schedule tomorrow and follow you.”

She threatened the same thing this morning when she woke up to Allura kissing across her collarbones.

“I might let you,” Allura admits. She’d far prefer Nyma’s shoulder to the window’s cold, flat surface for her upcoming nap.

In the end, they manage a kiss precariously balanced between prolonged and a simple peck.

The green car seat is just as lovely as Allura dreamed it would be. Much cushier than the seats in other cars, with a plug to keep her phone at 100% throughout the three-hour journey. She drops into her seat with a sigh, forgotten exhaustion seeping through her body.

After the conductor has dropped by to stamp her ticket, Allura opens her wallet and drops it in beside the unused one she bought for herself in Tokyo.

 _It was a nice gesture,_ she tells herself. _No need to complicate it._


	16. Hunk

**• HUNK •**

One of the downsides to Manti being obsessed with his restaurant, Hunk has found, is the manual labor completely unrelated to cooking that Hunk often has to do. Sometimes it’s toilet duty, sometimes it’s going to shops for new cutlery (because the internet is too _impersonal_ , Hunk, we should be forging bonds with the family-owned carvers down the road, _Hunk_ ), and today, it’s hauling imported lumber from the back of a truck Manti rented into a craftsman’s shop.

The wood is called rainbow eucalyptus, and Manti’s planning to have all new chairs made with the stuff. He had the wood imported directly from Papua New Guinea, you know, and it wasn’t cheap. It was worth the cost, of course, but all the same: very expensive. Someday the tables’ll be made from the same wood, but that’ll have to wait a few years. They can make do with current tables for now, which are made from cypress, which was also expensive and impresses their Japanese clientele plenty. Fancy inns make their bathtubs from cypress, you know.

Hunk absorbs these and more facts from Manti as they carry various cuts of wood from the van into the craftsman’s garage. The old craftsman himself listens to Manti ramble in Samoan with a deeply amused grin pulling his mouth crooked.

Once, when Manti is out at the van (still talking, mind you) and Hunk is hefting an armful of boards onto the sawdust-slathered floor, the old man asks, “What’s he talking about?” and Hunk sighs, “I wish I didn’t know.” The old man gives a rusty chuckle and gives Hunk’s damp bicep an encouraging clap.

When they’re done there, Manti slides behind the wheel of the van and says, “Any stops before I take us back to the restaurant, grumpy?”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re south of chipper, let’s say.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Means you look like someone pissed in your ear.”

“That’s—? I can’t even explain how unnecessary that visual was.”

Manti steers them down the narrow street at a grueling snail’s pace. Ever since he was reported to the police for “driving like a lunatic through the neighborhood” last year, he’s been doing the opposite out of spite. (“Fucking reanimated Kyoto corpses bored out of their minds nothing better to do than gossip at the police about the wacky gaijin invading their boring-ass nothing neighborhoods—”) Sometimes it annoys other drivers actually going the speed limit; mostly it annoys Hunk.

Their trip back from the craftsman’s shop makes them late to restaurant, which makes Manti extra ornery—even though it was his own fault—and Hunk enjoys six different urges to knock his brother unconscious with increasingly larger-sized pans as they prep for dinner.

It coalesces into Hunk struggling to scrounge up a customer-friendly smile when he opens the door at five.

Eight people are waiting on the stools lined up against the building, and the first in line is an elderly woman in a kimono who stands with a placid smile.

“You seem busy,” she says sweetly.

Translated from Kyoto dialect: “you’re twelve seconds late opening the door.”

Hunk’s smile twitches. “I’m very sorry to make you wait,” he says with a bow.

“Not at all, not at all.”

She shuffles in, followed by a pair, a group of four, and a familiar politician’s son he’s far more accustomed to seeing in workout clothes than the burgundy sweater and pressed white pants he’s in now.

Hunk’s next smile is real. “Hey, Shiro!”

Manti would smack him for breaking his Server Face, but Manti’s in the back and being more of a jerk than usual, so Hunk decides he doesn’t care.

Shiro smiles back. “I’m here alone this time,” he says. “I promise not to make trouble.”

Hunk grins. “You’re good, man. How’d your friend do getting home?”

There’s a visible change in Shiro’s smile that lights Hunk’s interest. “He’s good,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I mean, he got home. Eventually.”

Hunk raises his eyebrows. “Well, _that_ sounds—”

“Welcome, welcome!” Manti bellows from the kitchen, a pointed reminder to Hunk to do his job.

Hunk rolls his eyes and Shiro says, “Sorry, I’m keeping you.”

“And I appreciate that,” Hunk says in a stage whisper.

Hunk seats him at the counter facing the kitchen, mostly so he can talk to him instead of Manti. Once he’s got everyone’s order, he circles back to Shiro. 

“This looks great.” He points to the chicken kale moa, and Hunk makes a mental note to tell Manti they need to make new menus because no one can read their mom’s handwriting identifying the food in the photos.

Hunk scribbles a seven onto his notepad. “That’s what your friend got, right?”

Shiro hands him the menu with amusement bright in his eyes. “He ate my coconut fish soup while I was in the bathroom, so I ate his stew. Only fair, right?”

Hunk agrees. All’s fair in food and war.

The next twenty minutes pass with the usual chaos, and Hunk’s mind quickly eases into it. He’s more at home working in the kitchen than dealing with the diners, but Manti’s far worse with customer service than he is, so it’s a necessary hardship.

He certainly handled the direction Saturday night went in better than Manti would have. Drunk people aren’t Manti’s favorite customers, and Manti threatened under his breath to kick them all out several times.

The door chime announces a new arrival and Manti shouts, “Welcome!” from the stove. Simultaneously, he flicks a mung bean at Hunk, probably as encouragement for him to go greet whoever it is.

Hunk makes another mental note to line the inside of Manti’s pillowcase with sautéed onion skins.

He wipes his hands and swings out of the door with a bright artificial smile—

—that shifts into a genuine one when he sees Lance scanning the room.

When Lance notices him, they beam in unison.

“Hey, buddy!”

“Hey, man!”

A few diners glance between the two of them, including Shiro.

“You here to eat? There’s a place at the counter for you.”

Lance looks where Hunk is pointing and double-takes when he sees Shiro.

“Oh, whoa!” Lance laughs. “Um.”

“Shiro’s fine,” Shiro says.

Lance sits where Hunk points him and takes the offered menu.

“Wow,” Lance says, eyebrows high. “This looks…super authentic.”

“Well, yeah,” Hunk says, voice low. “Manti barely breaks even with this place ‘cos he spends most of his money on ingredients. Food’s great, though.”

Manti appears in the doorway and crows a laugh. “I knew it was you,” he says, brandishing a whisk at Lance. “Don’t cause trouble!”

Before Lance can say a word, Manti tells Hunk, “Two and thirteen are up, stop slacking,” and trundles back into the kitchen.

Hunk sighs long and loud and follows him, taking some solace in the chuckles that follow him.

What he picks up from the kitchen as he collects plates is that Lance has work nearby in Shijo on Tuesdays, so he’s making this his weekly dinner spot (“if the food’s good,” he adds loudly, probably to annoy Manti).

On Hunk’s way to deliver plates to the couple near the window, he hears Lance ask Shiro, “So, uh. Do you live close to Keith?” in the thirstiest voice Hunk has ever heard.

He is zero percent surprised.


	17. Keith

**• KEITH •**

Keith has been home for all of seven seconds when he hears Matt call, “Welcome home!” in Japanese from the kitchen.

Keith, whose entire plan for the evening could be best summed up as “blissful nothing,” shouts back, “Hey,” in English rather than _I’m home_ in Japanese. He toes off his shoes, sighs through his nose, and rakes both hands through his hair as he leaves the entryway.

“What happened to you?” Matt asks, leaning into the hallway. The leftovers of a smile lift his mouth.

“Keith!” Shiro calls, farther into the house. “You’ve got an admirer!”

Keith focuses on Matt, then frowns over his shoulder in the direction of Shiro’s voice.

“What’s he talking about?” Keith asks. He remembers Matt’s question and says, “Nothing happened. Reporters. Paparazzi.”

He moves into the kitchen past Matt and yanks down the blackout curtain over the sink’s window. The lack of greeting from his aunt leads him to assume it’s just the three of them for now, so he hoists himself onto the counter where he’s not allowed to sit when she’s home and slouches until his knees are resting comfortably on his thighs and his face is safely buried in the bowl of his hands.

Is six o’clock too early to sleep?

“Keith?” Matt says.

“Ngk.”

“Taka, your cousin’s broken!”

The sound of a toilet flushing precedes Shiro’s jogging footsteps. Keith watches through his fingers as Shiro’s socked feet slide on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. A few silent seconds follow, during which Keith assumes Matt is making wild hand gestures, then Shiro half-laughs, “How serious is it?” in English.

Keith musters energy from deep within to reply, but he doesn’t have enough for English. “Reporter followed me from Imadegawa asking about the re-election,” he says. “Then a paparazzo snuck out of the trees outside here and started interrogating me for an opinion on the Korean guy in Aichi.”

The initial amusement on both Shiro and Matt’s faces has drained entirely.

“Vultures,” Matt says, scowling.

“What Korean guy?” Shiro asks. He’s switched back to Japanese, and Keith feels one or two muscles in his neck ease a little.

Matt says, “I think he means the Pink Brûlée fanboy,” and then purses his lips at Keith like he’s apologizing for cutting him off.

Why Matt would think _Keith_ wants to be the one to share this is a mystery. He gestures for Matt to keep going, so Shiro turns more fully toward Matt.

“So, uh.” Matt tosses a bottle of barley tea back and forth from one hand to the other. “This Korean guy in Aichi got arrested for breaking into a singer’s apartment. He got caught stealing her clothes when she checked her apartment camera from her hotel in Prague. She was checking on her fish, apparently.”

Shiro snorts, and Keith understands. He had the same reaction when he read about it earlier. He’d mostly forgotten the story until a paparazzo in a cheap black business suit ambled out of the woods behind their house and started asking for his opinion on it.

“It must be upsetting to hear stories like that as a half,” the guy said, smiling without empathy as he followed Keith to the security gate. “Do you have any comments on the incident? Was he a friend of yours, maybe? Has the incumbent mayor talked to you about the incident? Her train arrived last night—has she not come home yet?”

Shiro’s hip meets the counter next to Keith’s knee.

Keith says, “I’m not gonna cry or anything,” with a humorless tilt of his lips.

He used to. When they’d kneel down and put microphones in his face and ask him if it was difficult to be orphaned, to be half Korean, to be raised by his aunt, a divorced single mother constantly focused on her political career with no intention of remarrying.

He doesn’t cry now. He’s learned not to.

“Did you punch the guy?” Shiro asks.

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Check Twitter,” he says.

Matt glances up from his phone. “He told the guy to ‘shut the fuck up’ in English,” he reports.

Keith folds his arms, unrepentant. “Is there video?” he asks.

“Not that I can find yet.”

Shiro tilts his head to give Keith a wry look. “Allegedly told?” he offers.

Keith grins back. Some of the crushing weight he walked in with melts off his shoulders.

Shiro grabs the back of his neck and musses the hair there. “Mayor Shirogane’s gonna be home tonight,” he says. “Did you eat? Matt and I were gonna make takoyaki for her arrival.”

The mention of food spurs Keith’s focus in a very different, more welcome direction, so much so that he forgets all about the media, his heritage, and Shiro’s odd comment about an admirer.


	18. Pidge

In elementary school, Pidge had six friends. In junior high, her family moved to Japan and she upgraded to four. In high school, she tried out having just one. Now, in college, she just outsources for friends. She has Matt and by extension Shiro and Keith and now this Lance person.

That’s plenty.

She doesn’t have to answer this message on LINE from her high school classmate. She doesn’t have to go to the stupid party for her teacher’s retirement. She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. She’s eighteen and Tired of People and all she wants is to spend her weekends building the code for her chatbot and eating.

Is that such an extraordinary wish list?

“Hey, Pidge,” Matt says from her doorway, “did you eat? At all?”

She says, “Yeah,” and moves a line of code lower. She’ll need it again when she adjusts the part of the bot that responds to detected sarcasm.

“When?”

The bot doesn’t understand most forms of humor, which is understandable, considering even humans have trouble with the concept. She wants this bot to be used in multiple languages someday, too, so—

“Pidge?”

She glances over her computer screen. “Yeah,” she says, hoping it’s what he wants to hear.

His expression is flat.

“I ate!” she insists. Then she wonders if that’s true. She probably did. She doesn’t feel any hunger pangs or any—

Oops. There’s one.

Her stomach proceeds to groan.

Matt leans on the doorframe. “Sure you don’t wanna eat something? Sushi? Okonomiyaki? Ramen? Udon? Nabe? Kushikatsu, katsudon, karaage—”

“Okay, okay, okay!”

They settle on Yoshinoya because it’s cheap and within six minutes of the building, and Matt even pays for her beef bowl _and_ carries it to their table for her.

Every alarm in her head blares.

“Okay,” she says with suspicion. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He smiles placidly back, then stuffs his mouth.

She stares at him for a few more seconds, taking in the happy glow and the little wriggling dance he’s doing.

Oh. _Oh!_

She opens Keith’s chat window on LINE and types, [ARE THEY DATING????]

Six seconds later, Keith writes back, [Who?]

Pidge glances at Matt and finds him smirking. Daring her to ask.

She’s not losing a possible ¥30,000 that easily.

[MY BROTHER AND YOUR COUSIN KEITH WHO ELSE WOULD I CARE ABOUT!?]

[Oh. idk]

Pidge breathes in slowly and switches windows.

[Shiro,] she writes, [Matt’s being weirdly nice to me. Theories?]

Shiro’s answer takes longer, and while she drums her fingertips on the table Matt says, “Your food’s gonna get cold and gross,” with a brilliant toothy smile.

“I like my food cold and gross,” she sneers.

[Matt’s always nice to you, Pidge. He loves you.]

Oh for the love of—

[SOMETHING IS UP AND I DEMAND ANSWERS SHIROGANE.]

A message from Keith pops up on the top of her screen. [Shiro knows about the bet.]

Which means—

Matt points at her bowl with his sauce-smeared chopsticks. “I’ll eat it if you won’t.”

She picks up the top slice of beef with her bare fingers and shoves it in her mouth. She’s not giving up. It’s not ending like this.

Matt shrugs innocently and returns to his half-eaten meal.

Keith writes, [Sorry, I think we all lost. Neither of them asked each other. They kind of found out at the same time.]

Pidge lets out a half-wailed roar of outrage that draws the gaze of every irritated customer around them.

Matt, meanwhile, steals one of her beef slices and sighs, “Gambling can be such a vice.”

“You’re the _worst_.”

“Nah, I’m great.”

She’d never agree aloud, especially not under these circumstances, but she decides to accept her loss with something attempting grace.

This is why she doesn't want friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! The stage is all set, and I've had my fun building the world I want to play in. :D
> 
> I'm working on the longer fic now, and it'll be a self-contained, standalone fic starting pretty much where this has left off. It's focused on Keith and Lance figuring out their whole mess. Also, I have another fic outlined that follows Shiro and Matt and Adam (it's not angsty, I promise).
> 
> If you've followed along for the last year, thank you for your patience and feedback! ♡ See you in the next fic!
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hadakanomind) | [Tumblr](http://kyashin.tumblr.com/)


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